<!DOCTYPE html>
<html>
<head>
<meta charset="UTF-8">
<title>long enough and just so long by ashlearose13</title>
<style type="text/css">

body { background-color: #ffffff; }
.CI {
text-align:center;
margin-top:0px;
margin-bottom:0px;
padding:0px;
}
.center   {text-align: center;}
.cover    {text-align: center;}
.full     {width: 100%; }
.quarter  {width: 25%; }
.smcap    {font-variant: small-caps;}
.u        {text-decoration: underline;}
.bold     {font-weight: bold;}
</style>
</head>
<body>
<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28893123">long enough and just so long</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/ashlearose13/pseuds/ashlearose13'>ashlearose13</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Based on a Taylor Swift Song, Character Death, Clint Barton &amp; Natasha Romanov Friendship, F/M, Multiverse, Not Avengers: Endgame (Movie) Compliant, Pain, Soulmates, True Love, What Happened in Budapest (Marvel), laura isn't really in it dw, pinky promsie</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-02-19</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-02-19</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-13 09:21:18</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Major Character Death</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>17,919</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/28893123</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/ashlearose13/pseuds/ashlearose13</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>If there are fourteen million universes, Tash, then there must be one where we're in love.</p><p>There must be one—</p><p>Right, Tash?</p><p>-</p><p>it's a multiverse fic, baby</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Clint Barton/Natasha Romanov</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>33</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>66</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>long enough and just so long</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>hi omg this has been a wild ride. this fic made me want to throw my laptop out the window bUT HERE WE ARE INSTEAD!!! so here are some disclaimers bc i made all of this up idc: it's a multiverse fic but i have absolutely no idea how it works and at this point i'm too afraid to find out. also, there's some character death in here just to keep it angsty but dw i promised a happy ending and that's what you're getting!! </p><p>hell was the journey but it brought me heaven ❤️</p><p>enjoy!! this is my endgame fix it bc canon makes me way too sad 😔 also a tip: for the redacted section, you can actually highlight the text on desktop to read what was crossed out!! or if you're on mobile you can copy and past into your notes (annoying i know but it looks cool okay)</p><p>N E WAY this has gone on for long enough. i really hope you all like it, let me know what you think ❤️</p><p>p.s. clintasha are soulmates so true 😌🤚🏻</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p><p> </p><p> </p>
<p></p><blockquote>
  <p>you and i knew strange corners of life</p>
  <p>-f. scott fitzgerald, “this side of paradise”  </p>
  <p> </p>
</blockquote><p>
  <b><br/>
Vormir, 2014</b>
</p><p>All that’s left to do on Vormir is pray. </p><p>The air is cold. Natasha hangs from her wrist, the entire weight of her suspended above a fall that there’s no coming back from. Clint hangs from the grappling hook she fired during the free fall. His hand aches. Holding onto the life of someone is as hard as he expected. </p><p>“Clint,” Natasha says. “It’s okay.”</p><p>“No,” he says. He let’s go of the wire that’s keeping him alive and grasps her forearm, too. They slide an inch closer to the canyon below them and he grunts, trying to pull on a body that has resigned itself to the forces of gravity. “No, I can’t—“</p><p>They jolt. Clint let’s go of her arm to grab the wire again, feels it all in his shoulders. Natasha smiles. She doesn’t try to find traction on the edge of the cliff anymore. Her fingers reach up, as though searching for the smooth skin of his cheek. </p><p>“It’s okay,” she repeats. “Let me go.”</p><p>“No!” Clint’s desperate now. He shakes his head to try and make a solution stick. There’s no way out of this; he takes to praying instead. “Tasha. <em> Tasha</em>.”</p><p>“It’s okay.”</p><p>“No, wait,” he says. He wants to touch more of her, to hold her, to spit out the words lodged in the back of his throat. They should have gone back to 2012. They should have done a lot of things. </p><p>She looks tired and afraid. Sad. She looks sad. “Let me go, Clint.”</p><p>They can’t hang there forever. His whole body aches with the knowledge of it. Already his fingers are losing the battle against the downward pull of fate. He’s probably bruising her. He doesn’t want her to hurt. </p><p>“I can’t—” It breaks off into a sob. <em> I can’t help you, I can’t save you. I can’t let you die. I can’t not tell you. </em> “If there are fourteen million universes, Tash, then there must be one where we’re in love.”</p><p>“Maybe when the time is right you’ll meet me again,” Natasha says. “And maybe when we fall we’ll catch each other instead.”</p><p>“Okay,” Clint says. </p><p>“Let me go,” Natasha says. </p><p>She hangs from her wrist. She smiles like it’s not the most painful thing in the world, and Clint lets go. </p><p>-</p><p> </p><p>
  <b>Somewhere in Iowa, 2004</b>
</p><p>Clint sits with his head against the window, legs spread out across the spare seat beside him. The window is cold; condensation from the combined breaths of everyone on board drips down against where his cheek touches the glass. The night outside is dark, spotted with city lights in the distance. If he squints he could pretend to see past his dishevelled reflection and out into the vast darkness.</p><p>A woman stops beside his chair and he quickly pulls his legs up to his chest, giving her the room to sit beside him. It’s a busy bus for this time of night, though Clint figures that many of the passengers will disembark long before he reaches home. <em> Home</em>. He hasn’t called his parent’s dilapidated farm home for so long that the idea of it takes a minute to settle in his head.</p><p>“Do you mind?” The woman asks, hand curled around the top of the seat. The bus lurches and she bends with it, eyes fixing on his face.</p><p>There’s nowhere else free, so Clint just nods. “Yea, okay.”</p><p>“Thank you,” she murmurs. “I’m Natasha.”</p><p>“Clint.”</p><p>When she sits he can feel her jeans against his hand. She doesn’t move so he doesn’t either, turning his gaze back out the window and watching the city peter out into suburbs and white picket fences. After a moment he closes his eyes and tucks his hands under his armpits. There are more miles than he cares to think about between him and the house he’s being forced to return to.</p><p>“Where are you going?”</p><p>Clint startles, blinking himself back awake. “Uh, Waverly.”</p><p>“Waverly,” Natasha repeats. “That sounds nice.”</p><p>“Not really,” Clint snorts. He glances at her, watching as she twists the end of her hair around her finger. It’s red; vibrant, deadly, cut haphazardly in a jagged line. Her eyes remain fixed on the bus door and the blur of darkness that rushes past them. “Where are you going?”</p><p>“Waverly,” she answers. Her gaze lifts to his and he catches the shadow of a bruise across her cheek and a darker mark beneath her ear. There’s a duffle bag at her feet that she keeps sandwiched between her ankles, and Clint’s been off the streets for a couple of years now, but it’s not long enough to forget the face of someone who’s running. “Looks like you’re stuck with me.”</p><p>“That’s okay,” he says. “I don’t mind some company.”</p><p>Natasha smiles softly. “You might not think that by the time we arrive.”</p><p>He looks at her again, properly, and watches the way the smile slides from her face. She lets go of her hair and wraps her arms around her stomach instead, leaning back against the seat with a sigh that sounds like it’s pulled from the depths of her.</p><p>“What’s waiting for you in Waverly?”</p><p>“I’m not sure,” she says carefully. Her eyebrows knit together, confusion brushing her features. “Better than what I’m leaving behind, anyway.”</p><p>“And what’s that?” Clint hears himself asking. He turns back to the window when she shifts to face him; his ears warm and he bites the inside of his cheek to stop himself from saying anything else. </p><p>He doesn’t usually fake niceties with strangers who look like they’ve crawled out of the very thing he’s trying to stay away from, because old habits die hard and he’s trying not to end up like Barney and his parents and all of the Barton’s that failed before him. It almost feels good to talk to her though. It almost feels like he’s catching up with an old friend. </p><p>She smiles again, wry this time. “Someone not so good.”</p><p>“I’m sorry,” he says. The bus slows and someone shuffles down the aisle to disembark. Clint watches them, wondering if Natasha will get up to take their seat. “Well, I hope Waverly is a little kinder to you.”</p><p>“Thanks, Clint,” she whispers, and then leans back again and closes her eyes. </p><p>Clint sighs. He doesn’t want to go home and face the remaining members of his family, knowing what they think of him despite the fact that he went clean long before any of them. Some of them still aren’t and he doesn’t want to see Barney and the kids that only cry when he inevitably leaves. He wonders if anyone will cry at the funeral. He’s not sure he will.</p><p>When he wakes next there’s a heavy weight against his shoulder. Outside the window he watches fields of corn bleed into each other, blinking sleep from his eyes blearily. Half the chairs in front of him are empty. He finds the destination sign and waits for the blinking letters to register in his brain. Still too many miles between here and there, still enough time to get off at the next stop and pretend he doesn’t need to be going anywhere.</p><p>Natasha’s leaning her head against him, her hair brushing the side of his cheek. It feels comfortable; he would let her rest there for as long as she wanted—<em> needed, </em>if the marks on her face are anything to go by—but then she wakes too and jolts away from him, hand flying down to check that the bag is still at her feet.</p><p>“I’m sorry—”</p><p>“I wasn’t just watching yo—”</p><p>They stare at each other. Natasha’s cheeks are pink. Clint shrugs and rubs the back of his neck, shuffling over so that he’s flush with the window. There’s seconds of silence that’s not uncomfortable and he thinks again that it’s like meeting with someone he already knows. </p><p>“You looked warm,” Natasha says after a beat. “I didn’t mean to overstep.”</p><p>“Don’t worry,” Clint says quickly. “It’s fine.”</p><p>“Okay. Thank you.”</p><p>Natasha glances back at the door. The bus has stopped and they wait for an old man to shuffle his way down the aisle. Clint watches Natasha’s shoulders curl and thinks that she’s about to make a run for it even though they’re miles from Waverly, so without really knowing why he reaches out and wraps his hand around her bicep.</p><p>Her eyes find his again. “What are you doing?”</p><p>“Do you need help?” He asks. “I know… I know what it looks like when someone’s leaving everything behind.”</p><p>She sucks in a breath. He feels the muscles beneath his hand tense so drops her arm and looks away. He’s not one to touch her, to ask her a question that he’s not even sure he can follow through with. He’s got everything he owns in a backpack smaller than her bag; if there’s something waiting for him after the funeral then he’s not sure what it is, but he’s made tracks for himself for this long and he’s not as worried about the future as he once might have been.</p><p>Natasha is silent for a moment. He knows that he’s overstepped and is working his way towards some kind of half-decent apology when she suddenly nods, not looking at him. “Yes.”</p><p>Clint lets out a breath. “Okay. Uh, okay.”</p><p>“I don’t know where to go,” she admits, teeth sinking into her chapped bottom lip. They catch on the skin and she starts to bleed; he watches her tongue dart out to swipe across the flesh before she brings one shaky hand up to touch the sore. “I have no one.”</p><p>“Do you trust me?”</p><p>“Depends on how hard you hit me,” Natasha mutters. She tucks her hair behind her ear and scoffs. “I had a friend who told me that I trusted the people who hurt me more than I trusted the ones who didn’t.”</p><p>“Were they right?” Clint asks.</p><p>She shrugs. “I’m not really sure.”</p><p>“Well, I don’t have anyone either,” Clint says. It’s cheesy, but it draws a small smile from her. “And we still have a couple of hours before Waverly. I can… I can help you work something out.”</p><p>“Thank you,” she says quietly. </p><p>Clint’s not sure what he <em> can </em> do to help. He has twenty dollars to his name and the clothes in his backpack. He’s trying to stay away from people like Natasha. He’s <em> trying </em> his goddamn best, and that’s all he can ask of himself.</p><p>The bus won’t stop again for hours. He remembers this stretch of road and how it always feels like he’s not moving anywhere, even though they’re steadily chugging towards the one place he vowed never to return to. He hasn’t thought about his parents dying since he decided to come. Barney had asked, though, and Barney never asks. He might have forgiven his mother if he had been given the chance.</p><p>“You could always stay with me,” Clint suggests. “I mean, until morning. House will be full with cousins and shit, but, uh—” </p><p>“I’m already burdening you enough as it is,” Natasha says. “I wouldn't expect you to do that.”</p><p>“I said I would help,” Clint says, then shrugs. “I still have a room. You can stay there.”</p><p>Natasha’s leg bounces up and down. “What’s making you go back?”</p><p>“My parents died. Seems like the right thing to do.” </p><p>“I’m sorry,” she murmurs. “I can’t stay if—”</p><p>“Don’t,” Clint interrupts. “I would rather you there than half my family.”</p><p>“You barely know me,” Natasha says, and Clint thinks, <em> that’s true, but I think we’ve met before. </em></p><p>He doesn’t know how to explain the feeling he gets sitting beside her. She’s nervous, and he thinks that he would be too if he had been the one to admit that he needed help to a complete stranger on a night bus going nowhere. The night is dark; something about Natasha shines through, like a disembodied memory that sits on the tip of his tongue, destined to be swallowed before it ever comes to fruition. </p><p>“Yea, but I know my family,” Clint laughs. “In the morning we can find something… I don’t know. I don’t have much.”</p><p>Natasha knocks her elbow against his side. “You’ve already given me more than most people I know just by saying hello to me.”</p><p>Clint smiles. Natasha smiles too, softly, like she’s unsure how to wear it on her face. The bus rolls on and he gets to know her as the seconds tick by into minutes; not about where she came from, but about how she got there, to the seat beside his, and how she hadn’t planned to do anything other than run the second she got her foot out the door. He’s been there before. And so he tells her about it, too.</p><p>By the time they reach Waverly there’s a drizzle outside and enough mud to cover Natasha’s old sneakers. Clint takes her duffle bag and her hand and leads her towards Barney’s parked car. He won’t explain it; he’ll take her home, let her shower. She’ll sleep in his bed with an arm curled around his pillow, and in the morning he’ll give her his last twenty dollars and never see her again.</p><p>The memory of her will linger, though, on the tip of his tongue. He doesn’t swallow for fear of losing it.</p><p>-</p><p> </p><p>
  <b>Moscow, 2002</b>
</p><p>The rain comes on day two. It’s an odd cross between torrential thunderstorm and blizzard; Clint’s ill-prepared as far as weather proof clothing goes, and he’s halfway through writing a disgruntled email to Coulson when he first sees movement on the roof.</p><p>The roof is a stupid place to be in any weather. Clint’s file is paper-thin and doesn’t give him anything to work with, but he had thought that someone as renowned as the woman down the middle of his scope would have more sense to be out on a night like this. He’s been following her for months. Surprisingly, this isn’t the stupidest thing she’s done.</p><p>He keeps his grip steady on his bow as he circles out from his hiding spot. The rain makes it hard to see, but the silhouette of her is lit against the backdrop of Russia and he could pick her hair—red, burning—anywhere. He moves slowly. She doesn’t move at all, just stares out across the city below her swinging feet.</p><p>“You’re a hard woman to find,” is what he says. He means, <em> you’re too good to let me catch you here. </em></p><p>Natalia Romanova shrugs. “When I want to be.”</p><p>Clint has the easiest shot in the world, which is what makes it the hardest. The arrow could be through the back of her skull before she has the time to blink again. He hasn’t seen her eyes. He thinks that if he sees her eyes, just once, it might make a difference.</p><p>“There a reason you’re on a roof in the middle of a storm?” He asks.</p><p>“I’m not sure which will be quicker,” Natalia says. “The arrow or the fall.”</p><p>Clint feels it like a blow to the chest. He lowers his bow and takes another step closer, noticing the white-knuckled grip she has on the ledge. She wants to jump. The realisation is shocking, but only because he’s never seen her want anything of her own before. </p><p>“The arrow,” he says carefully. He’s beside her now, so he bites the bullet and sits too, thigh an inch apart from hers. The wind assaults his back, almost strong enough to send him toppling into the darkness below. “It would be a clean shot.”</p><p>Natalia’s eyes crinkle slightly at the corners. “Maybe you should take the shot.”</p><p>“Not like this,” Clint says. “You’re too good for that, Widow.”</p><p>“I’m also tired,” she admits. “It’s a heavy burden to carry.”</p><p>“What’s that?”</p><p>“The blood.” She lets go of the ledge with one hand to reach into the pocket of her jacket. Clint tenses, expecting a gun, but instead she pulls out a square photograph. The rain softens the edges and makes some of the ink run; she lets it go over the side of the building, but not before Clint catches a glimpse of two young girls, their heads pressed together. “There’s a lot of red in my ledger.”</p><p>“There’s always a way to balance a ledger,” Clint says. “Dying, yea. Makes sense.”</p><p>“It’s easy,” she says. She leans forward and Clint readies himself. He’s not sure if he should try to catch her. What would it feel like to hold the entire weight of someone above a fall like that? “But I’m not sure it will suffice. Unless you pull the trigger and do what you were sent to do.”</p><p>He’s there to kill her. He’s been following her for months; this is the closest he’s ever come to her, hip to hip, icy breaths mixing in the air between their bodies. She looks at him, then, as though she’s come to the same realisation as he has, and he sees her eyes for the first time. Blindingly, brilliantly green, sad but not defeated.</p><p>Coulson might fire him. He squints at her through the rain and carefully smiles with chattering teeth. Russia is cold but the woman beside him is not. He believes her when she says she’s tired because she could have pushed him off the ledge by now and disappeared into the night; he thinks instead that she’s hoping for a lifeline. </p><p>“I don’t have a trigger to pull,” Clint says eventually. “But dying isn’t your only option.”</p><p>Natalia hesitates. “What else do I have?”</p><p>“A chance to clean the slate,” Clint answers. He brushes his wet hair out of his face and stands slowly, holding his hand out to her once both feet are firmly on solid ground. He takes another chance and says, “I think you owe it to the girl in the photo to at least try.”</p><p>She tilts her head back to the sky, letting the rain run in rivulets off her face. “She would have shot you by now.”</p><p>Clint grins again. “Good thing I wasn’t sent after her, then.”</p><p>Natalia’s lips lift slightly, and somehow it’s infinitely sadder than the image of her sitting alone above the world in the rain. She swings her legs over the side and takes his hand. Her fingers are cold.</p><p>They’re also, inexplicably, <em> impossibly, </em>familiar. </p><p>-</p><p> </p><p>
  <b>New York, 2012</b>
</p><p>The first thing he notices is that Natasha’s limping. The second thing he notices is that he’s really, <em> really </em>hungry.</p><p>“Oh God,” he says, not entirely sure who he’s directing the comment to. “I don’t think he fed me.”</p><p>Stark is, predictably, the first person to make sense of what he’s saying. “No time to stop for a cheeseburger when the world needs destroying, I guess.”</p><p>“He didn’t do it on purpose,” Natasha says. She catches his gaze and winks, but he can see the exhaustion through the dirt and dried blood. “Whiskey, Barton?”</p><p>“Is whiskey really appropriate?” Steve asks, and Clint still has to get used to the fact that Captain <em> freaking </em> America is standing right beside him instead of being buried in the ice, which surprisingly isn’t the weirdest discovery he’s made all week. “We still have to deal with…”</p><p>Loki glares at them. Clint thinks it’s an appropriate reaction considering he was just beaten to a pulp by the Hulk.</p><p>“Sure,” Clint says anyway. Adrenaline is his friend right now. The second it wears off, he knows he’ll have one hell of a come-down. “Let me pour it, Romanoff. You don’t know what you’re doing.”</p><p>He pours them a double and they move around the bar, avoiding the debris and the withering glare Stark throws over his shoulder at them. Natasha keeps one eye on the Hulk and the weight off her ankle, and he puts two and two together in less time than it took him to realise that his mind had been taken from him. </p><p>“How’s the head?” She asks. </p><p>“Just fine, actually. Hey, what did the Hulk ever do to you?”</p><p>Her face hardens. “Another time.”</p><p>Clint takes a sip of whiskey, then downs the rest of the glass and lets it slip from his fingers to join the shattered remains of all the other glasses that didn’t survive the invasion. It feels good; warm all the way down to his toes, which he can still wiggle, thank God. </p><p>He looks around the room, at the rag-tag team Fury assembled and the half-assed effort they’re making to remain civil. Natasha doesn’t give anything away, but Natasha never gives anything away. If it weren’t for the limp and the way she knocks back her whiskey in one hit, he could even pretend that she’s fine. </p><p>“Food,” he says decisively instead of pushing her. “Anyone know any good pizza places?”</p><p>“Pretty sure all the pizza places are closed,” Steve comments wryly. </p><p>Surprisingly, it’s Thor who raises his hand. “What about this shawarma you speak of?”</p><p>The last time Clint had shawarma was in Turkey with Nat and at least five semi-automatic weapons. The barely standing restaurant that Thor leads them to doesn’t really compare, but Clint’s far too tired to care. He’s also avoiding eye contact with at least half of their “team” and stuffing his face with sliced meat seems like a good excuse to get out of talking.</p><p>He props his leg up on the back of Natasha’s chair and raises an eyebrow. <em> You okay? </em></p><p>She rolls her eyes and he takes that to mean that she’s just dandy, then makes a mental note to get off the grid before SHIELD can shove a therapist down his throat.</p><p>“Cosy,” Stark says. </p><p>Steve cushions his cheek against his hand. “The world keeps spinning.”</p><p>Now it’s Natasha’s turn to give him a look. She doesn’t want to be there either and he can think of one safe house in the immediate area that should—God willing—still be standing. He picks at his fries and catches the subtle lift of her shoulder. Beside him, Banner finally tears his gaze away from Natasha’s clenched fist on the tabletop.</p><p>“Well, this was nice,” Clint says. “We should get going.”</p><p>We, being him and Natasha. He doesn’t mean for everybody to start moving at once.</p><p>“This is where we part ways, fellas,” Natasha says firmly. She casts her eyes over each of them until they seem to understand that she means it, big time. “Barton and I have our own business to attend to.”</p><p>There’s no argument. It makes him feel better to know that they respect Natasha even if they don’t know where they stand with him. Thor is more than happy to eat everyone’s leftovers and they leave through the hole in the wall, ducking under loose wires.</p><p>“How’s your body holding up, old man?” She teases. </p><p>Now that she mentions it, he can feel aches in places that shouldn’t ache. “Eh, all the bones are on the inside, so.”</p><p>“Where are we going?” Her arm winds around his waist and even though it must hurt her ankle he’s grateful for the support. “SHIELD will want to chat.”</p><p>“They can kiss my ass,” he mutters. “Off-grid, Romanoff. What do you say?”</p><p>Her laughter echoes down the empty street. “I thought you’d never ask.”</p><p>-</p><p> </p><p>
  <b>Los Angeles, 2022</b>
</p><p>Clint’s halfway to the Grammy’s when he gets the text from Coulson, his old guitar and Tasha’s rings both secured in a velvet case that he holds tightly between his feet. He pulls his phone out and stares at the screen, wondering when he became too afraid to open a message, as if he doesn’t know the exact minute on the exact day that technology became his enemy.</p><p><em> i guess you didn’t mean what you wrote in that song about me</em>, Tasha had written, and Clint still flinches when he hears his phone vibrate across a room.</p><p>The Grammy’s is their final hurrah. Clint doesn’t want it to be, because he’s still not sure that ending everything was the right way to work out their problems. Tasha had said she wasn’t easy to live with and he’d laughed, not knowing at the time that it was him who would be the difficult one after all. </p><p>Coulson’s message tells him how to find the dressing room when he gets there. He’s got a suitcase in the trunk and not enough time to think of what he’ll say to Tasha when he sees her again for the first time in three months. He’s been moping on the farm with Kate, ignoring her comments about how much she’ll miss Tasha. He’ll miss Tasha, too, even if he knows he’ll see her everywhere.</p><p>The car pulls in. Clint gets out undetected and carries the guitar case under one arm. This is how he remembers life from before, and he doesn’t think he wants to go back to it. It would have been easier if he did. At least then Tasha could still live the life that she wants, too.</p><p>“How was the trip?” Coulson asks.</p><p>Clint shrugs. “It’s LA, Phil. Where’s—”</p><p>He doesn’t finish his question. Tasha emerges from the bathroom in a dress that takes his breath away, just like all of the other dresses that Wanda has made for her over the last two years. She smiles when she sees him, and he doesn’t think he deserves it, but he accepts her hug for his own selfish reasons.</p><p>“Hey, Clint,” Tasha says. “It’s been a while.”</p><p>“Yea,” he says, gruff and nothing like what he really wants to say. “I have the rings.”</p><p>Her smile slips. “Best I wear those.”</p><p>The rings are hers, and she can take them with her if she wants to. Clint was the one who broke it off, feeling too overwhelmed with the pressure of it all and not sure that he wanted to keep making music after pouring his soul into Serendipity. Tasha did want to, though, because Tasha is the kind of person who is timeless. They’ll immortalise her long before the dust settles on his sudden yet expected disappearance.</p><p>Coulson takes the rings out of the guitar case and slips them onto her finger, the way Clint had two years ago. He misses the weight of them encased in his hand. He misses the way he could hold her hand and mean it.</p><p>“What are we singing?” He asks.</p><p>Coulson leaves them alone. Clint’s not sure that it’s such a good idea but then Tasha sits on the floor, against the wall with her legs stretched out in front of her, and he has no choice but to follow. This is Delta: him and her and hard floors, unspoken words, warmth where their thighs touch. But this is also Delta: a distance between their shoulders, him and a guitar and her with her hurt, a farm too big for one person.</p><p>“I never thought we’d get here,” Tasha says. “We were fucking invincible.”</p><p>Clint screwed it up. Sometimes he wonders if he was so worried about her leaving that he forced her to. Once he had said that to her and she had rolled her eyes, as if Clint Barton could make Tasha Romanoff do anything she didn’t want to do. </p><p>“I think we knew it would come to this,” he says eventually. “I screw up more often than not.”</p><p>“It probably could have worked,” she muses. “Looking back on it. We probably could have worked it out.”</p><p>Clint sighs. “I’m not making you give up your dream, Tash. I love you too much for that.”</p><p>“There it is.” Her head hits the wall and she turns to look at him. “I still fucking love you, too.”</p><p>Delta’s scheduled to break up in the summer. There’ll be interviews that he’ll drag himself to, a few more candid pictures of the two of them walking to and from appointments. Tasha will release her album after everything’s finalised and Clint will go back to Kate and Dip. Her muzzle is greying. She misses Tasha without even knowing why she left.</p><p>“I’m sorry,” Clint says. “I’m just sorry.”</p><p>Tasha’s eyes meet his, green and beautiful. “I think we should sing <em> Growing Years</em>.”</p><p>He nods. “Okay, Tasha.”</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p>
<p></p><div class="tw twBody"><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p>
<p></p><div class="twUser"><p> delta grammy winners!!<br/>
<span class="twHandle">@natclint</span></p></div><div class="twText"><p>why does this feel like the end</p></div><p>❤ 1.2K<span class="twTime"> 11:06 PM • March 12, 2022</span></p></div><div class="twComments"><p>-</p><p> </p><p>
    <b>Connecticut, 1991</b>
  </p><p>Clint is nine when he meets Natasha. She’s seven and speaks a different language and pulls a face when her mama calls her <em> Natalia</em>. It’s the first day of summer and Clint is invincible. He drags her by the hand down the long driveway of his parent’s farm, their small feet echoing in the still heat. </p><p>Those first few days are short. They argue about what to play, whether Natasha is old enough to be the cop or climb to the highest branch of the red maple in the front yard. Clint says no. Clint is nine and has one big brother, but Barney doesn’t play cops and robbers anymore. Natasha is seven and calls him <em> glupyy </em>and climbs to the top of the red maple anyway. She sticks her tongue out at him from the branch that hangs out over the field, and Clint decides then that she’ll be his best friend. </p><p>(Natasha makes a better cop, anyway. All of her Nerf arrows hit him squarely in the forehead.)</p><p>Sometimes Clint doesn’t know what she’s saying. She’s from Russia and his mum shows him on a map, pointing to a big country across the ocean where they roll their r’s and eat soup made with beetroots. Clint doesn’t like soup <em> or </em>beetroots. When he goes to her house though Mrs Romanova makes hotdogs with sour cream and he eats three, then makes his mum ask for the recipe.</p><p>It doesn’t take long for them to become Natasha and Clint. Where one goes the other follows; <em> birds of a feather</em>, Edith says, and they spend the afternoon jumping out of the red maple trying to fly. Natasha <em> and </em>Clint, two halves of the same whole, two kids who invent their own secret language at the back of the corner store while Barney buys a bag of mixed candy and cigarettes. </p><p>“<em>Luchshiy drug</em>,” Natasha whispers in his ear, lips sticky sweet from licorice ropes. Clint doesn’t know what she says sometimes, but he knows this. <em> Best friend</em>. They hold hands the whole way home and fall in love the way children do. It’s pirates and tag and bubble baths to get the dirt off their faces. It’s a hot sun, an endless sky. It’s Natasha and Clint, the summer of ‘91. </p><p>She has a sister. Yelena is five and wants to play with them, too, but Natasha thinks she’s too little. Clint likes Yelena. She doesn’t know much English but she does whatever they tell her to do because when she smiles everyone calls her <em> cute </em> and <em> angelic</em>. She has eyes like saucers and he thinks that it wouldn’t be so bad, to have a sister. Especially one like her. </p><p>(Yelena punches him in the face when he doesn’t let her use his dumptruck and his nose bleeds for a whole hour. He doesn’t know then that the feeling that builds in his chest is pride.)</p><p>They have sleepovers, the three of them, with sleeping bags on the floor and an army of stuffed animals. The bath is almost too small but they make it work, and then Mrs Romanova kisses them all, one by one, and switches the light out.  The fan spins above them. Yelena sucks her thumb, free hand curled around Clint’s pyjama shirt, and when he blinks in the dark he can see Natasha smiling at him.</p><p>Their world is as big as the block between their houses and the yellow fields and the height of the red maple. It feels infinite. It feels like ice down his back, hot dogs and sour cream, Natasha’s hair in two braids over her shoulders. They race to the end of the driveway and back, but she’s always faster. </p><p>“House with porch,” she tells him one day. Days don’t mean anything to kids. Clint knows that summer has to end but with her it’s endless. She’s taken her shoes off and her nails are painted pink. “Big house. We live together.”</p><p>“Okay,” Clint agrees. “You know we’ll be best friends forever, right?”</p><p>“<em>Luchshiy drug.” </em>And they pinky swear on it, in the heat of an unforgiving sun, sitting outside her house on the porch step that Yelena cracked her head against last week. For Clint it’s as simple as that. He’s nine. He smiles at her, and she smiles back. </p><p>Some time later his mum says, “It’s a shame.”</p><p>Mrs Romanova agrees. “Yes. They are <em> rodstvennyye dushi </em>—the same. But they will find each other again.”</p><p>Clint, sitting on the floor in the kitchen with an army of little green soldiers, won’t understand the conversation their parents have that day. He’ll understand instead the way Natasha’s men march towards his camp with tea instead of weapons. She pours him air and he imagines that it tastes sweet like honey, and they’ll clink their plastic tea cups together and toast to childhood without even knowing it.</p><p>Natasha is seven, Clint is nine. They are soulmates; just two kids, a simple, platonic love binding them like an invisible string. Natasha is seven, and Clint is nine, and summer is forever. It’s a shame, in the end. But the weather changes. Not even children can stay young forever.</p><p>It’s a Wednesday. Clint will remember it for as long as he lives. The gravel driveway is long and his lungs burn the whole time he sprints towards her house, feet bare, pyjamas dusty. He runs faster than he’s ever run before and it’s still not fast enough. He sees their car rolling slowly out of his life, because Natasha only had one summer, because Connecticut was only a temporary blip on the Romanova’s radar.</p><p>He cries. Part of it’s from the run and the air whipping in his face. The other part is much sadder. Through the tears he makes out the back door opening, a small body tumbling out onto the road. Natasha runs, and she’s always been faster than him. By the time his legs start to work again she’s slamming into him, hard enough to bruise, hard enough to feel forever.</p><p>“Don’t go,” Clint whispers. He holds her tightly against him and feels her hands curl into the back of his pyjama shirt. “You can’t go.”</p><p>Mrs Romanova is yelling. So is Clint’s mum, though he doesn’t hear what she’s saying. All he hears is Natasha’s breath in his ear, and he remembers all the times she laughed at his stupid jokes, the way she could make him feel like the most important person in the world.</p><p>“Don’t forget me,” she tells him.</p><p>“Never,” he promises.</p><p>They’re pulled apart. It takes both parents, and even then they cling to each other's hands fiercely, fingertips touching until the end. Mrs Romanova chastises Natasha for jumping out of the car and she rolls her eyes one last time. Clint reaches for her and watches her hand stretch out towards him again. She’s too far away, and this time there’s no coming back.</p><p>“I see you again!” Natasha calls.</p><p>He cups his hands around his mouth so he can yell, “I’ll find you!”</p><p>She smiles, cheeks rosy from crying. “<em>Luchshiy drug.” </em></p><p>Clint doesn’t always know what she’s saying, but he knows this. <em> Luchshiy drug. </em>She disappears into the car and he watches it until he can’t see it anymore. The truth is that he’ll never see her again, no matter how hard he tries, but the memory of that summer won’t fade. </p><p><em> Luchshiy drug, </em>Natasha had said.</p><p>
    <em> Best friend. </em>
  </p><p>-</p><p> </p><p>
    <b>Hong Kong, 2006</b>
  </p><p>The old restaurant is their place. Off the beaten track, a mom-and-pop store with booths from the 50’s and flickering neon lights. Clint doesn’t remember how many times they’ve eaten there between missions or after missions or just because they’re in the area. It’s their place, and that’s what makes it worth coming back to.</p><p>Natasha is sitting in the booth they long ago claimed as their own, tucked away in the corner far from prying eyes. He sees her straight away; red curls pinned atop her head, eyes keeping track of the movement behind the counter. They’re the only two there. When she sees him her lips turn up at the corners. It makes what he’s about to do feel one hundred times worse.</p><p>“I ordered the only burger they have on the new menu for you,” Natasha says when he sits across from her. “You might not like some of the toppings though.”</p><p>Clint sighs. “Nat, we need to talk.”</p><p>“It has egg, but I know how you feel about runny yolks so I asked them to cook it—”</p><p>“Nat. I <em> really </em> think we need to talk.”</p><p>“Cook it for longer,” she continues, eyes flickering down to where her hands rest on the table. “The mayo has wasabi in it but you really should be more adventurous anyway.”</p><p>The waitress brings their meals over. The burger is huge and looks a little like they’ve just thrown everything they can find in the fridge between two buns. Clint smiles carefully and pulls the plate towards him. “Thanks.”</p><p>Natasha smiles again. There’s an edge to it now, as though she’s expecting a blow. He’s never hit her. He’s never even fought her before, so he has no idea how she’ll really react. There are layers to her that not even he’s uncovered yet; four years of being partners and whatever else they’ve been calling their <em> friendship </em> and he doesn’t even know what she looks like when she breaks.</p><p>“I met someone new,” Clint says.</p><p>Natasha’s still smiling as she picks up her chopsticks. “That’s nice.”</p><p>Clint put his burger down so he can reach across the table and rest his hand on her forearm. “No, Nat. I met someone new.”</p><p>“I heard you the first time,” Natasha says. Her smile falters just a little bit. It’s enough to crack open her carefully constructed facade. “Are we meeting them for extraction?”</p><p>“She’s not an agent,” Clint explains. He needs her to look at him so she can see how much it kills him too. “Tasha, I didn’t—”</p><p>“No,” she says. She jerks her arm away from him and leans back in the booth, and it’s not hurt that he sees on her features, but it’s something close. “How?”</p><p>“I met her when I was stationed in Berlin,” he says slowly. “She was studying.”</p><p>“Where was I?” Natasha asks. </p><p>He thinks she knows but he tells her anyway. “Milan. With the mafia.”</p><p>He hadn't meant to fall for anyone else before he fell for Natasha. And it wasn’t that he didn’t love her, too, it just meant something different. It was life or death with her, a kiss over a bandage to help the healing, but eventually the blood would soak through. It wasn’t meant to last, and he knew that. He hadn’t wanted it to end like this though.</p><p>“Why?” Natasha says. </p><p>“I don’t know,” he answers honestly. “I can’t explain it, Nat. But Laura is—”</p><p>“Laura.” Her jaw clenches. Her fingers inch their way across the table until she can hug her glass of water between her palms. It shakes in her grip and she stares at them resolutely—her hands and the glass and the clear liquid inside—and he’s not sure he’ll ever see her eyes lit in the way that he’s used to again. “What does she have?”</p><p>“Nothing,” he sighs, which is the truth, which isn’t what she wanted to hear. </p><p>She picks up her chopsticks again and starts mixing whatever's in her bowl. Clint doesn’t feel bad for not knowing what it is. She might have said something about it when she was explaining the burger and he was trying not to break her heart too fiercely. He doesn’t remember; all he can think about is the way her shoulders have curled in, how he can’t see her face anymore.</p><p>“Okay,” she says. “What does she study?”</p><p>Clint blinks. “Uh, business.”</p><p>Natasha nods. When she looks up she doesn’t look at him, just someplace over his shoulder. Her eyes are clear but her mascara has begun to smudge beneath her lashes and he knows that the image of her sitting there, tucked away in the corner like that, will settle in the place that has always been reserved for her. He won’t shake it, no matter how much of himself becomes Laura’s along the way. </p><p>“Do you like the burger?”</p><p>“It’s nice,” he says slowly. “Nat, it’s not that I don—”</p><p>“Stop,” she says. “I get it.”</p><p>Clint’s not sure she does. He’s not sure <em> he </em>does, and he’s the one ending it before it’s ready to be ended. They’re still the only two there and the only sound he can hear is sizzling from the kitchen, the quiet hum of a refrigerator somewhere. Natasha puts her chopsticks down and pushes the bowl aside, and that’s it. They’re done, and it hurts more than he expected.</p><p>“It’s different,” he whispers. “I don’t know what else to say.”</p><p>“It’s okay,” Natasha says. Her voice wavers just a little and her hands shake again. “I can let you go, Clint. It was fun.”</p><p>“It was—” He shrugs, stares at the top of the table. “Yea, it was fun.”</p><p>Natasha is often braver than him, but his admission has taken the fight out of her. He doesn’t try to reach for her arm again. Instead he stands, drops some bills onto the tabletop, and doesn’t look back as he leaves. He’ll see her for extraction, and hopefully by then they can pretend that the last however many years were anything other than what they were.</p><p>He hears her glass shatter. It sounds like his heart. </p><p>-</p><p> </p><p>
    <b>Moscow, 2002</b>
  </p><p>The rain comes on day two. It’s heavy and Clint’s ill-prepared, but he has his bow and enough common sense to keep his hand on it as he circles out from his hiding spot and approaches the woman sitting on the ledge. She doesn’t move at all, even though she must know that he’s behind her. </p><p>“You’re a hard woman to find,” he says. He means, <em> you’re too good to let me catch you here. </em></p><p>Natalia Romanova shrugs. “When I want to be.”</p><p>Clint has the easiest shot in the world, which is what makes it the hardest. The arrow could be through the back of her skull before she has the time to blink again. He hasn’t seen her eyes. He thinks that if he sees her eyes, just once, it might make a difference.</p><p>“There a reason you’re on a roof in the middle of a storm?” He asks.</p><p>“I’m not sure which will be quicker,” Natalia says. “The arrow or the fall.”</p><p>The arrow will be quicker. Clint never misses, which is why Fury and Coulson sent him after her. This is the first time he’s been this close to her; he can see the way she grips the ledge, the way her feet swing out over the city. They’re so high up that he knows she won’t come back from a fall like that.</p><p>“The arrow,” he says, sitting beside her. “It would be a clean shot.”</p><p>“Maybe you should take the shot.”</p><p>“Not like this,” Clint says. “You’re too good for that, Widow.”</p><p>“I’m also tired,” she admits. “It’s a heavy burden to carry.”</p><p>“What’s that?”</p><p>“The blood.” She lets go of the ledge with one hand to reach into the pocket of her jacket, and Clint flinches, expecting a gun. Instead she pulls out a photograph; two kids, a boy and a girl, heads pressed together, smiles wide. “There’s a lot of red in my ledger.”</p><p>Clint knows that kid. He feels a sharp pain at the back of his skull and reaches out to stop her from letting the photo go. She tugs her arm free and it falls from her fingers anyway, carried by the wind and rain down towards the street below. He <em> knows </em> that kid, because that kid was him, because that girl—</p><p>“Where did you get that?” He asks.</p><p>Natalia leans forward, breath fogging out in front of her. “I don’t know. Are you going to kill me?”</p><p>That’s the reason he’s there, but the photo changes something. It makes no sense and it throws Clint off balance. The world swims below him. Somewhere, there’s a memory that he thinks he knows; a hot summer, two red braids like a pattern. She looks at him and her eyes are sad and he doesn’t know what to do anymore. </p><p>“I don’t know,” he says eventually. “Do you want me to?</p><p>Natalia shrugs. “What else do I have?”</p><p>Clint brushes his wet hair out of his face and points out into the darkness. “Where did you get the photo?”</p><p>“I don’t know,” she reiterates. “I don’t know anything about my life. Do you know what it feels like to be unmade?”</p><p>“No,” he says. “Why don’t we go inside, out of the rain? Talk about things. I might be able to help you.”</p><p>“I probably don’t deserve your help,” Natalia says. “You should just do what you were sent to do.”</p><p>A strange kind of desperation crawls up Clint’s throat. He wants to know why she had a photo of him in her jacket pocket and he wants her to tell the truth. Sitting outside, in the middle of a storm that feels fierce enough to push him over the edge, is not how he wants to spend the rest of his night. He grabs her arm again and she stares at him, eyes brilliantly green.</p><p>“Come inside and we can talk about it,” Clint says. “I need to know how you got the photo of me.”</p><p>Natalia freezes. Clint can’t think past the rushing in his head. He’s confused and frustrated and doesn’t know how to explain what’s happening right in front of him. After a moment Natalia nods and he sighs in relief, swinging his legs back over the ledge and setting his feet firmly on solid ground.</p><p>“You’re the boy in the photo?” She asks. She stands, too, but doesn’t move away from the ledge. Rain runs in rivulets down her cheeks. It could be tears, for all he knows. </p><p>“Yes.” He picks up his bow and pulls the strap across his shoulder. “It doesn’t make sense.”</p><p>“I’m the girl,” Natalia says softly. Her voice is swept away in the rain but he hears her all the same. “How is that—”</p><p>“I don’t know,” he says. There’s not much else he <em> can </em>say; he holds out his hand to her, waits for the moment her fingers will slot into his. He thinks that’s what happens next. He’s been here before, hasn’t he? “Let’s go inside.”</p><p>Natalia doesn’t say anything else. There’s a deep frown on her face that makes his stomach coil in unease. For all that he can see, for all that they call him <em> Hawkeye</em>, he doesn’t realise the moment she decides until it’s too late. His hand is left grasping empty air as she falls backwards, disappearing over the edge of the building into the gaping blackness of the night.</p><p>He stares for long enough that he thinks she might just come back. She doesn’t, and if the photograph of him and her sitting on porch steps as children ever really existed, he never sees it again.</p><p>-</p><p> </p><p>
    <b>London, 2009</b>
  </p><p>They meet in the hospital. Clint’s cancer comes back around the same time Natasha gets told she’s terminal; there’s not much else they can do in there, so they shoot wads of paper through straws at the nurses and tap on the wall between their beds during the night. His mum doesn’t stay anymore, which is fine by Clint, because it means he can sneak out of his room when he’s got the energy for it and no one will stop him.</p><p>He visits Natasha as often as he can. Sometimes her sister is there, but he’s known the family for long enough now that Yelena just makes room for him on the cot. Natasha has a head full of hair, but that’s about the only thing that looks like her now. They’re all counting down the days as though they have days left to count.</p><p>It’s a friendship built on years of missed opportunities and chemo. The nurses tell him that shared life experience is important and then try to keep him away from Natasha in her final days. Clint’s not convinced the cancer won’t kill him, too. </p><p>He knows it’s getting close, though. One night Natasha doesn’t knock back and he climbs out of bed, walks unsteadily to the room next door without being noticed once. She’s awake, or as awake as she can be these days, and Yelena is asleep in the armchair instead of the hard bed they’ve been dragging in for her for months. Natasha doesn’t want her to be there when it happens, but Yelena is simply too stubborn.</p><p>“Hey,” he says to her, watches her struggle to focus on his face. “Thought you’d carked it on me.”</p><p>“Not a chance,” Natasha says, and it takes all of her energy. He listens to the sound of the machines that keep her comfortable and wishes they could keep her alive. “Sit.”</p><p>This is what he knows about Natasha: she’s too young to die. She is a dancer before anything else, a sister and a protector, the only person in his life who never coddled him after his diagnosis. She likes the sound of the rain on the roof, the way that jelly melts on her tongue. She wants to name her daughter Lila. She’s too young to die.</p><p>“It’s okay if you do need to go tonight,” Clint tells her. He holds her hand and squeezes her cold fingers gently. “I’ll stay here.”</p><p>“Okay,” she breathes. “You know… I’m gonna find you. Again. Another time.”</p><p>“Not if I find you first,” he teases. </p><p>This is what he knows about Natasha: he loves her. He loves her and life is cruel, and they should have the time to grow old together with a kid or two. He loves her and he’ll have to pick up the pieces when she dies, because Yelena will have no one left. He <em> loves </em>her. And he doesn’t have the time to show her.</p><p>Natasha’s eyes are watery when she smiles at him. “<em>Luchshiy drug</em>.”</p><p>“Right back at you,” he says. Her eyes close and he listens to her breaths, doesn’t let go of her hand, and falls asleep with his cheek pressed against the bed. In his dream he sees her, smiling over her shoulder at him. </p><p>She doesn’t wake up when he does. That’s okay. Clint will find her again.</p><p>-</p><p> </p><p>
    
  </p><p>
    <span class="redacted">OPERATION HERCULES</span>
  </p><p>OPERATION ORDER <span class="redacted">841122</span></p><p>Mission report for <span class="redacted">OPERATION HERCULES</span> field exercise</p><p> </p><p>
    <span class="redacted">BELARUS</span>
  </p><p>Mission dates: <span class="redacted">21/10/2010 to 25/10/2010</span></p><p> </p><p>Task Organisation:</p><p>Strike Team Delta—Phillip J. Coulson</p><p>Agents CLINT BARTON and NATASHA ROMANOFF</p><p> </p><p>1. SITUATION</p><p>Investigation into alleged operations at a facility in the <span class="redacted">Maryina Horka Forest</span>believed to be related to <span class="redacted">Red Room</span> activity noted in area and <span class="redacted">disappearance of Agent ROMANOFF on 30/9/2010 from MISSION 937566</span>. Agent BARTON tasked with retrieving documents of interest and locating ROMANOFF without engaging.</p><p>Attachments included: <span class="redacted">DOCUMENTS 34J3 – 34O5, VITA RADIATION FORMULA, DOCUMENT 59, DOCUMENT 122L, TRANSCRIPTS 1 – 5, SECURITY FOOTAGE 3 - 5, MEDICAL REPORTS Barton, C &amp; Romanoff, N.</span></p><p> </p><p>2. MISSION</p><p>BARTON to air-drop into <span class="redacted">Maryina Horka Forest</span>. BARTON to infiltrate facility to retrieve documents of interest. Minimal to no casualties required. Gather evidence, locate ROMANOFF and find extraction point via <span class="redacted">Loyew.</span></p><p> </p><p>3. OUTCOME</p><p>BARTON lands in <span class="redacted">Maryina Horka Forest</span> and locates facility. Facility is an abandoned school turned academy. Snowfall light. BARTON has clear sightline from position to the north. Enters facility via north-east entrance at approx. 21:13. Communication details found in <span class="redacted">TRANSCRIPT 1</span>. At approx. 21:29 BARTON has failed to confirm status. Extraction team radio silent.</p><p>FOLLOWING IS IMPLIED FROM COMMUNICATION DETAILED IN <span class="redacted">TRANSCRIPT 2</span></p><p>BARTON met with heavy resistance. Subdued by gas <span class="redacted">(UNKNOWN SUBSTANCE)</span>. Wakes up in cell with ROMANOFF; chained to chairs, comms indicate that both are alive. Small talk about situation. ROMANOFF assumed concussed at this stage and heavily injured. BARTON heard commenting that ROMANOFF is <span class="redacted">"spaced out, doesn't know where [she] is</span>;. Door opens. <span class="redacted">Female voice, Russian, TRANSCRIPT 2. Torture commences [OUTLINED IN MEDICAL REPORT]. Comms removed</span></p><p>FOLLOWING TAKEN FROM <span class="redacted">SECURITY FOOTAGE 3 - 5</span></p><p>BARTON remains in good spirits talking to ROMANOFF. COULSON not notified of BARTON and ROMANOFF’s disappearance yet. Extraction team <span class="redacted">found deceased in Loyew safe house</span>. Torture resumes for approx. 10 hours involving <span class="redacted">electrocution, waterboarding, beating with clubs, surgical procedures</span>. ROMANOFF <span class="redacted">unconscious for majority of 22/10/2010 but often forced awake to continue torture.</span></p><p>ROMANOFF conscious. BARTON concerned about [her] mental state. <span class="redacted">Female voice, Russian, SECURITY FOOTAGE 3</span>. ROMANOFF broke <span class="redacted">her leg in subsequent torture. BARTON untouched. 23/10/2010</span></p><p>ROMANOFF severely <span class="redacted">beaten</span>. BARTON <span class="redacted">waterboarded. SECURITY FOOTAGE 4, BARTON assures ROMANOFF he will get them out without extraction</span>. ROMANOFF potentially <span class="redacted">triggered by situation; speech heavily accented</span>. BARTON trying to keep her grounded. Exhaustion evident. BARTON’s injuries consistent with second heavy beating, targeted at head. <span class="redacted">Strike Team Alpha dispatched for imminent retrieval. 24/10/2010</span></p><p>
    <span class="redacted">SECURITY FOOTAGE 5 details overnight torture. Heavy electrocution, heavy beatings. UNKNOWN SUBSTANCE administered via IV. ROMANOFF catatonic. BARTON unconscious for several hours with large head wound [OUTLINED IN MEDICAL REPORTS]. Strike Team Alpha extract pair at approx. 16:17. Medical on board Helicarrier provide First Aid. 25/10/2010.</span>
  </p><p> </p><p>4. POST MISSION</p><p>BARTON <span class="redacted">in coma, unresponsive to treatment outlined in MEDICAL Barton, C. Unlikely to recover.</span></p><p>ROMANOFF <span class="redacted">catatonic and unresponsive to stimuli despite being conscious outlined in MEDICAL Romanoff, N. Unlikely to recover.</span></p><p>Investigation into why <span class="redacted">MISSION 841122 went south. Assuming mole within SHIELD.</span></p><p>Medical records indicate torture was designed to inflict consistent, high-impact damage.</p><p>Assuming <span class="redacted">Red Room wanted to kill them. No indication to reinstate ROMANOFF’s programming.</span> Further investigation required to determine exactly what happened.</p><p> </p><p>Signed</p><p> </p><p>
    
  </p><p>Phillip J Coulson;</p><p> </p><p>-</p><p> </p><p>
    <b>Budapest, 2005</b>
  </p><p>In Budapest, Clint falls off the side of a building with nothing to save himself with, just a prayer and the hope that wherever he lands will be soft enough to not break every bone in his body.</p><p>In Budapest, Natasha saves his life, and he never really finds out how; one minute he is falling down towards his death, most likely, and the next he is hitting the side of the building with enough force to wind him. There’s Natasha against him, straining from the effort of holding them both above the fall, and it’s a grappling hook that saves them both in the end.</p><p>“You’re stupid for going after me like that,” he tells her later. </p><p>She kisses his cheek. “You’re welcome, Barton.”</p><p>In Budapest, Clint doesn’t kiss her properly, the way that he wants to.</p><p>In Budapest, Clint lets her walk away.</p><p>-</p><p> </p><p>
    <b>Brooklyn, 2017</b>
  </p><p>Katie has her hair in two pigtails, wispy red baby hairs curling around her ears. She grins when she sees him but doesn’t let go of Natasha, which only hurts for a second. Natasha hoists her up higher on her waist and offers him something that could be a smile or a grimace, he’s not entirely sure. </p><p>“Say hi to daddy,” Natasha prompts.</p><p>Katie waves shyly. “Hi daddy.”</p><p>“Hey pumpkin,” he says, leaning in to press a kiss to the top of her head. He pulls away and frowns at Natasha. “Didn’t think you could bring a kid into court.”</p><p>“Maria is watching her,” Natasha says cooly. “I thought you might like to see her.”</p><p>She knows exactly how to push his buttons, and that’s why he hates her. “Of course I want to see my daughter. It’s been nearly a month.”</p><p>“And who’s to blame for that?” Natasha quips, before smiling at a point over his shoulder. Katie squeals in excitement and reaches out, past him, to her godmother. “Hey, Maria. Thanks for this.”</p><p>“Anything for the sweetest girl in the world,” Maria gushes. She takes Katie and the diaper bag Natasha’s got slung over her shoulder, then gives him a once over. “Hey Barton.”</p><p>“Hi, Maria,” he says, because he doesn’t hate <em> her</em>. “Thank you.”</p><p>“Say bye to dad and mama!” Maria says. Katie doesn’t really care, content to pull at Maria’s ponytail, and the two disappear around the corner. </p><p>“Pepper has the updated custody agreement,” Natasha begins.</p><p>Clint scoffs. “I haven’t agreed to anything yet.”</p><p>“Clint,” Natasha says, voice steely. It’s the voice she uses when she’s mad and trying to remain calm. “This is the right thing to do. You can’t drag Katie out of her life here, with all of her family, because you want to start a farm.”</p><p>“I want my daughter to have grass and trees and fresh air,” he hisses. “She’s not just yours, Natasha.”</p><p>“She’s also not a thing to bargain with,” she snarls. “She’s a child. She has everything here. Do not punish her because you’re trying to punish me.”</p><p>There was a reason Coulson told him not to speak to Natasha without any lawyers present. He’s so angry he could punch the wall, but he really doesn’t need to give the judge another reason to deny his own custody arrangement. He can tell from Natasha’s attitude that Pepper will be ready to tear him limb from limb.</p><p>“It would be so much easier if you just listened,” Natasha says eventually. “I’m doing what’s best for Katie. This has nothing to do with us.”</p><p>“I’m not the one who kept my daughter from one of her parents for a month,” he snaps. Something close to hurt settles over her face, but he’s done trying to talk to her. “I’ll see you in court.”</p><p>He doesn’t look back at her for fear of screaming.</p><p>-</p><p> </p><p>
    <b>Massachusetts, 2020</b>
  </p><p> </p><p> </p>
<p></p><div class="phone"><p class="messagebody">
      <span class="header">stark</span><br/>
<br/>
<span class="time"><b>21 June</b> 10:15 PM</span><br/>
<span class="breply">have you got the chem notes</span><br/>
<br/>
<span class="text">i think you have the wrong number</span><br/>
<br/>
<span class="breply">aww shit</span><br/>
<span class="breply">you wouldnt have chem notes??</span><br/>
<span class="breply">like any chem notes???</span><br/>
<span class="text">i dont take chem</span><br/>
<br/>
<span class="breply">okay well</span><br/>
<span class="breply">thanks anyway</span>
    </p></div><p> </p>
<p></p><div class="phone"><p class="messagebody">
<span class="header">???</span><br/>
      <span class="time"><b>22 June</b> 7:34 AM</span><br/>
<span class="breply">wait so if ur not stark then</span><br/>
<span class="breply">who are you??</span><br/>
<span class="text">who are YOU</span><br/>
<span class="breply">im clint barton</span><br/>
<span class="breply">i study vet science but idk</span><br/>
<span class="breply">i got talked into chem or smth</span><br/>
<span class="text">how do you get talked into taking chemistry</span><br/>
<span class="text">its not an easy class</span><br/>
<span class="breply">TELL ME ABOUT IT??!?</span><br/>
<span class="breply">i’m failing but its fine</span><br/>
<span class="text">sorry</span><br/>
<span class="text">bye</span><br/>
<span class="breply">but u didn’t answer my question!!!</span>
    </p></div><p> </p><p> </p>
<p></p><div class="phone"><p class="messagebody">
      <span class="header">KATIE 🏹</span><br/>
<br/>
<span class="time"><b>22 June</b> 9:26 AM</span><br/>
<span class="breply">kate i’ve met a mystery person</span><br/>
<span class="text">what does that even mean barton</span><br/>
<span class="text">also HOW</span><br/>
<span class="text">we’re in the middle of a perpendicular</span><br/>
<span class="breply">not in like real life</span><br/>
<span class="breply">i text the wrong number</span><br/>
<span class="breply">now i’m talking to Someone</span><br/>
<span class="text">good for you??</span><br/>
<span class="breply">thanks</span><br/>
<span class="breply">i’m gonna find out who they are</span><br/>
<span class="breply">stay tuned</span>
    </p></div><p> </p><p> </p>
<p></p><div class="phone"><p class="messagebody">
      <span class="header">???</span><br/>
<br/>
<span class="time"><b>22 June</b> 9:45 AM</span><br/>
<span class="breply">if i promise i’m not a stalker will u tell me ur name</span><br/>
<span class="text">maybe</span><br/>
<span class="breply">i promise i’m not a stalker</span><br/>
<span class="text">im natasha</span><br/>
<span class="text">i study modern history and classic lit</span><br/>
<span class="breply">that sounds boring</span><br/>
<span class="text">it’s not</span><br/>
<span class="breply">this explains why ive never met a natasha</span><br/>
<span class="text">what college do you go to</span><br/>
<span class="breply">now whos the stalker</span><br/>
<span class="breply">mit</span><br/>
<span class="text">i’m at yale</span><br/>
<span class="breply">oh so ur smart smart</span><br/>
<span class="breply">hello??</span>
    </p></div><p> </p>
<p></p><div class="phone"><p class="messagebody">
      <span class="header">natasha</span><br/>
<br/>
<span class="time"><b>23 June</b> 3:52 PM</span><br/>
<span class="breply">how’s history</span><br/>
<span class="text">fine</span><br/>
<span class="breply">isn’t it boring</span><br/>
<span class="text">no??</span><br/>
<span class="text">it’s history</span><br/>
<span class="breply">oh</span><br/>
<span class="breply">hey can you tell me about what tf happened at waterloo</span>
    </p><p class="messagebody"> </p></div><div class="phone"><p class="messagebody">
      <span class="header">natasha</span><br/>
<br/>
<span class="time"><b>24 June</b> 9:32 PM</span><br/>
<span class="breply">fun fact: turtles can breathe out their butts</span><br/>
<span class="text">okay?</span><br/>
<span class="breply">i’m bored</span><br/>
<span class="text">im busy</span><br/>
<span class="breply">oh shit sorry</span><br/>
<span class="breply">goodnight natasha!!</span>
    </p></div><p> </p>
<p></p><div class="phone"><p class="messagebody">
      <span class="header">natasha</span><br/>
<br/>
<span class="time"><b>25 June</b> 12:04 PM</span><br/>
<span class="breply">fun fact: cats and humans have been friends for like</span><br/>
<span class="breply">10,000 years</span><br/>
<span class="text">wow</span><br/>
<span class="breply">is that sarcasm natasha</span><br/>
<span class="text">i have a cat</span><br/>
<span class="text">well she’s back home in russia</span><br/>
<span class="text">her name is liho</span><br/>
<span class="breply">omg ur from russia!! so cool</span><br/>
<span class="breply">can you say something</span><br/>
<span class="text">ты странно милый</span><br/>
<span class="breply">im not gonna translate that</span><br/>
<span class="text">suit yourself</span><br/>
<span class="text">bye clint</span><br/>
<span class="breply">bye natasha!</span>
    </p><p class="messagebody"> </p></div><p class="messagebody">
    <span class="header">natasha</span><br/>
<br/>
<span class="time"><b>26 June</b> 9:01 AM</span><br/>
<span class="breply">i really miss the cinema</span><br/>
<span class="text">i miss my family</span><br/>
<span class="breply">are they in russia??</span><br/>
<span class="text">yea</span><br/>
<span class="text">its fine</span><br/>
<span class="breply">i’m sorry 😔</span><br/>
<span class="text">why are u still talking to me</span><br/>
<span class="breply">why are YOU still replying</span><br/>
<span class="text">i don’t know</span><br/>
<span class="breply">neither do i</span><br/>
<span class="breply">it’s nice tho, right?</span><br/>
<span class="text">yea</span><br/>
<span class="text">it is</span>
  </p><p> </p><p> </p>
<p></p><div class="phone"><p class="messagebody">
      <span class="header">natasha</span><br/>
<br/>
<span class="time"><b>28 June</b> 11:23 PM</span><br/>
<span class="text">are you awake</span><br/>
<span class="time"><b>Today</b> 2:25 AM</span><br/>
<span class="text">dw this is stupid</span><br/>
<span class="breply">uh hi</span><br/>
<span class="breply">whats up??</span><br/>
<span class="text">im sad</span><br/>
<span class="breply">omg why</span><br/>
<span class="breply">are you okay???</span><br/>
<span class="text">it’s stupid im sorry</span><br/>
<span class="text">i dont even know u</span><br/>
<span class="text">i just dont have anyone to talk to</span><br/>
<span class="breply">call me</span><br/>
<span class="text">are you sure?</span><br/>
<span class="breply">yes</span>
    </p></div><p> </p><p> </p>
<p></p><div class="phone"><p class="messagebody">
      <span class="header">KATIE 🏹</span><br/>
<br/>
<span class="time"><b>29 June</b> 11:42 AM</span><br/>
<span class="breply">so natasha called me last night</span><br/>
<span class="text">who the fuck</span><br/>
<span class="breply">natasha</span><br/>
<span class="breply">mystery number</span><br/>
<span class="text">oh yea ofc</span><br/>
<span class="breply">we talked for 5 hours</span><br/>
<span class="breply">it was like</span><br/>
<span class="text">5 HOURS</span><br/>
<span class="breply">talking to someone i’ve known my whole life</span><br/>
<span class="text">wtf are you getting yourself into</span><br/>
<span class="breply">i think i like her</span><br/>
<span class="text">omg</span>
    </p></div><p> </p>
<p></p><div class="phone"><p class="messagebody">
      <span class="header">nat </span><br/>
<br/>
<span class="time"><b>2 July</b> 6:55 AM</span><br/>
<span class="breply">still sad??</span><br/>
<span class="text">no</span><br/>
<span class="text">you actually helped</span><br/>
<span class="breply">don’t sound so surprised</span><br/>
<span class="text">i dont even know you</span><br/>
<span class="breply">so</span><br/>
<span class="breply">i know you have a cat</span><br/>
<span class="breply">you know i love dogs</span><br/>
<span class="text">i have to write an essay</span><br/>
<span class="breply">omg that sucks</span><br/>
<span class="text">do you want to call again</span><br/>
<span class="text">i like talking to you</span><br/>
<span class="breply">yea okay</span>
    </p></div><p> </p>
<p></p><div class="phone"><p class="messagebody">
      <span class="header">nat </span><br/>
<br/>
<span class="time"><b>10 July</b> 7:15 PM</span><br/>
<span class="text">did you get the letter</span><br/>
<span class="breply">NAT WTF</span><br/>
<span class="breply">YOUR HANDWRITING IS SO NICE</span><br/>
<span class="text">okay but did you get the notes</span><br/>
<span class="breply">oh yea thank u</span><br/>
<span class="breply">so ur friend is a genius at chem or smth??</span><br/>
<span class="text">or something</span><br/>
<span class="breply">do i annoy you</span><br/>
<span class="breply">bc i kinda just</span><br/>
<span class="text">no</span><br/>
<span class="text">clint you’re the only good thing to come from this pandemic</span><br/>
<span class="breply">so are you</span><br/>
<span class="breply">do you wanna facetime??</span>
    </p></div><p> </p>
<p></p><div class="phone"><p class="messagebody">
      <span class="header">KATIE 🏹</span><br/>
<br/>
<span class="time"><b>13 July</b> 12:01 PM</span><br/>
<span class="text">are u like</span><br/>
<span class="text">text-dating wrong number girl</span><br/>
<span class="breply">tasha?? no</span><br/>
<span class="breply">she’s somehow become a really good friend</span><br/>
<span class="text">in like a few weeks</span><br/>
<span class="breply">yea i guess</span><br/>
<span class="breply">we talk everyday</span><br/>
<span class="text">cute barton</span><br/>
<span class="breply">shut up</span><br/>
<span class="breply">i really really like her katie</span><br/>
<span class="text">i know</span><br/>
<span class="text">maybe one day you’ll get to meet</span><br/>
<span class="breply">i hope so</span><br/>
<span class="breply">i wanna give her a hug</span>
    </p></div><p> </p>
<p></p><div class="phone"><p class="messagebody">
      <span class="header">tasha</span><br/>
<br/>
<span class="time"><b>25 July</b> 3:07 AM</span><br/>
<span class="breply">ims od jrunk =</span><br/>
<span class="breply">i m gout sur drunk by msyelf</span><br/>
<span class="breply">tasha wwornf texting uw</span><br/>
<span class="breply">bes thirtnd ever</span><br/>
<span class="text">oh my god clint</span><br/>
<span class="text">drinking alone on a school night??</span><br/>
<span class="breply">wishduw u were here</span><br/>
<span class="text">i wish i was there too</span><br/>
<span class="breply">what whsas that thing u saay</span><br/>
<span class="breply">last enight on phone</span><br/>
<span class="text">лучший друг</span><br/>
<span class="breply">i knwo ht at </span><br/>
<span class="breply">i heard itr bwefore</span><br/>
<span class="text">call me</span><br/>
<span class="text">i’ll talk to you until you pass out</span>
    </p></div><p> </p>
<p></p><div class="phone"><p class="messagebody">
      <span class="header">tasha</span><br/>
<br/>
<span class="time"><b>26 July</b> 11:47 AM</span><br/>
<span class="breply">i live</span><br/>
<span class="text">hows the head</span><br/>
<span class="breply">we called last night right</span><br/>
<span class="text">for a couple of hours</span><br/>
<span class="text">you told me you liked me</span><br/>
<span class="text">and then threw up</span><br/>
<span class="breply">kill me</span><br/>
<span class="text">i told you i liked you too</span><br/>
<span class="breply">oh</span><br/>
<span class="breply">thats</span><br/>
<span class="text">when it’s safe to travel we could</span><br/>
<span class="breply">i would like that</span><br/>
<span class="breply">sorry for being so embarrassing</span><br/>
<span class="text">it was cute</span><br/>
<span class="text">class is about to start so</span><br/>
<span class="breply">talk later tash</span>
    </p></div><p> </p>
<p></p><div class="phone"><p class="messagebody">
      <span class="header">tasha 💘</span><br/>
<br/>
<span class="time"><b>29 July</b> 1:59 PM</span><br/>
<span class="breply">hey</span><br/>
<span class="text">hi</span><br/>
<span class="breply">still up for facetime dinner tonight</span><br/>
<span class="text">of course</span><br/>
<span class="text">i have something i need to talk to you about</span><br/>
<span class="breply">can’t believe it’s only been a month</span><br/>
<span class="breply">oh</span><br/>
<span class="text">i’ll see you later</span><br/>
<span class="breply">okay</span>
    </p></div><p> </p><p> </p>
<p></p><div class="phone"><p class="messagebody">
      <span class="header">KATIE 🏹</span><br/>
<br/>
<span class="time"><b>29 July</b> 4:10 AM</span><br/>
<span class="breply">tasha has to go back to russia</span><br/>
<span class="breply">her grandma is sick</span><br/>
<span class="breply">they might close the country down or</span><br/>
<span class="breply">she cant risk it</span><br/>
<span class="breply">we’re facetiming and shes asleep</span><br/>
<span class="breply">shes beautiful</span><br/>
<span class="breply">we’re gonna try to keep in touch but timezones</span><br/>
<span class="breply">school</span><br/>
<span class="breply">she doesnt know if she’ll even come back</span><br/>
<span class="breply">anyway</span><br/>
<span class="breply">i’ll miss her</span><br/>
<span class="breply">call me when you wake up</span>
    </p></div><p> </p>
<p></p><div class="phone"><p class="messagebody">
      <span class="header">tasha 💘</span><br/>
<br/>
<span class="time"><b>17 August</b> 7:30 AM</span><br/>
<span class="breply">everything packed??</span><br/>
<span class="text">yea</span><br/>
<span class="breply">okay cool</span><br/>
<span class="text">i’ve got your dorm address</span><br/>
<span class="text">and i’ll message you on fb</span><br/>
<span class="breply">i know</span><br/>
<span class="breply">you can ring me whenever you want</span><br/>
<span class="text">it’s been a few weeks and you’ve changed my life</span><br/>
<span class="text">i love you</span><br/>
<span class="breply">god i love you too</span><br/>
<a href="&lt;a">  </a><br/>
<span class="text">i’ll call you when i get there</span><br/>
<span class="breply">okay</span><br/>
<span class="breply">bye</span><br/>
<span class="text">see you in a minute ❤️</span>
    </p></div><p> </p>
<p></p><div class="phone"><p class="messagebody">
      <span class="header">tasha 💘</span><br/>
<br/>
<span class="time"><b>19 August</b> 2:22 AM</span><br/>
<span class="breply">how was the flight tasha??</span><br/>
<span class="text">AUTOMATED RESPONSE: This number has been disconnected.</span>
    </p></div><p> </p><p> </p>
<p></p><div class="phone"><p class="messagebody">
      <span class="header">KATIE 🏹</span><br/>
<br/>
<span class="time"><b>20 August</b> 6:51 PM</span><br/>
<span class="text">clint i’m so sorry</span><br/>
<span class="text">i just saw the news</span><br/>
<span class="text">clint??</span><br/>
<span class="text">please call me back</span><br/>
<span class="text">i’m so sorry clint</span><br/>
<span class="text">i know how much she meant to you</span><br/>
<span class="text">fuck</span><br/>
<span class="text">don’t watch the news</span><br/>
<span class="text">there’s pics of the plane and</span><br/>
<span class="text">just call me</span><br/>
<span class="text">i’m here for you</span><br/>
<span class="text">and i’m so sorry</span><br/>
<span class="text">💕💕💕</span>
    </p></div><p>-</p><p> </p><p>
    <b>Michigan, 2023</b>
  </p><p>“Hey dad, where’s Aunty Nat?”</p><p>Clint looks up. Laura does, too, her face pulled down in a frown so fierce that he can already feel the beginnings of a headache forming. She’s worn that face more times than he can count in the last few months. He’s not sure what she wants him to say.</p><p>“Um,” he starts, then clears the lump that suddenly forms in his throat. “Aunty Nat died, sweetheart, remember?”</p><p>“Oh,” Lila says. “I didn’t think that was real.”</p><p>Clint nods, unable to meet her gaze. “It’s real, Lils. We had a funeral.”</p><p>“Nat sacrificed herself so we could come back to your father,” Laura says. “End of story. Go brush your teeth.”</p><p>Lila does as she’s told, blowing Clint a kiss as she climbs the stairs. Laura waits until she’s gone to start slamming dishes in the sink, her obvious anger only fuelling Clint’s own frustration. Neither of them are where they want to be, and it’s getting too hard to pretend otherwise. </p><p>“Nat?” Is what Clint settles on. “What happened to Aunty? Godmother to your dau—”</p><p>“I knew from the second you brought Natalia in that she would ruin this,” Laura hisses. “God, Clint. Do you think I never noticed the way you looked at her?”</p><p>“Can we not do this?” Clint asks. “My best friend is dead. I’m not speaking ill of her.”</p><p>Laura pauses, arms crossed over her chest. “You loved her.”</p><p>He doesn’t think it’s worth lying anymore. “Of course I did.”</p><p>There’s a silence, then, that settles over the house. The back of his skull begins to ache like it has ever since Natasha let herself go over the edge. He sees it when he closes his eyes. He sees it when he’s awake, in the mirror. She hadn’t deserved for it to end the way that it did. Even the funeral hadn’t been complete without her body.</p><p>“I want a divorce,” Laura says. “And I want full custody of the kids.”</p><p><em> Finally</em>, Clint thinks. <em> I’m free. </em></p><p>-</p><p> </p><p>
    <b>Hong Kong, 2006</b>
  </p><p>The old restaurant is their place. Off the beaten track, a mom-and-pop store with booths from the 50’s and flickering neon lights. Clint doesn’t remember how many times they’ve eaten there between missions or after missions or just because they’re in the area. It’s their place, and that’s what makes it worth coming back to.</p><p>Natasha is sitting in the booth they long ago claimed as their own, tucked away in the corner far from prying eyes. He sees her straight away; curls pinned atop her head loosely, the usually vibrant red dulled by what looks like dust. There’s dust on the white table cloth, too, dust on the shattered remains of her glass and the burger he left sitting in front of her. </p><p>Clint moves slowly, waiting for her to look up and smile in the way he remembers. She doesn’t do either. Instead she stares ahead, blinking languidly, waiting for a moment that he knows won’t come. He never went back to the restaurant. He went home, to a new life, and she stayed there forever, frozen.</p><p>He’s close enough now that he can see the mascara stains on her cheeks. He tries to sit opposite her but the chair is stuck fast; when he reaches for her arm his hand passes right through, and he realises it’s not his universe to find. Even then, when he pulls away he dislodges a clump of dust and watches through hazy eyes as it re-collects on her shoulders.</p><p>“Tasha,” he whispers. The whole restaurant is silent. He thinks that if something else happened, if she just did anything other than <em> stare</em>, he could almost forgive himself for breaking her heart. “God, please. I’m sorry.”</p><p>Natasha does move, then. Her head tilts, lips pulled up; he follows her line of sight and sees himself walk in, and this time it’s different, because the memory ripples and he sees the moment he should have said, “<em>we need to talk</em>.” Instead, he smiles, and Natasha smiles, too, and in this universe she doesn’t know about Laura or the kids or the Christmases she was invited to.</p><p>This universe is Natasha’s universe, but it’s also Clint’s. She never gets up from the booth in the corner. He stays until he can convince himself to leave her alone again.</p><p>-</p><p> </p><p>
    <b>Amalfi Coast</b>
  </p><p>It’s just before six in the morning, and already the sky is slowly turning deep purple into tangerine tinged clouds. From directly in front of him, Natasha looks over her shoulder to make sure he’s still there and smiles warmly, cheeks pink from the fresh air. Clint feels his heart somersault and can’t help but smile back, because Natasha Romanoff is dragging him up a mountain to watch the sunrise and he doesn’t know what gets better than that. </p><p>Il Sentiero degli Dei is aptly named, though he thinks that not even the Gods can compare to the way Natasha looks as she hikes them closer to the sun. They started in Agerola when it was still dark, stumbling through the first half of the trail like teenagers sneaking out in the middle of the night. They’ve been travelling along the coast for three days now and it feels like the kind of life he’s only ever dreamt of living.</p><p>Their love is pure. It’s early morning sunrises, the sound of her feet on his bedroom floor, a mug of day-old tea left on his kitchen counter like some kind of talisman. When he wakes up every morning the first thing he sees is her hair, a tangled mess around her face, baby hairs that feel like silk between his fingertips. He kisses her and it feels like a rush; every move she makes he sees through rose coloured glasses and he’ll go to the ends of the Earth for her, no questions asked. </p><p>He’s lucky and it’s terrifying, because people <em> want </em>Natasha. He’s seen them brush against her post-mission, touches that linger on the small of her back even though the wound they should be assessing is on her shoulder or cheek. It’s dizzying, electrifying, enough to make him feel like he’s flying.</p><p>“Clint!” Natasha calls. She’s stopped at a point in the trail a few steps above him, waiting for him to catch up. “Let’s go over here.”</p><p>He pulls himself up the last few rocky steps and falls in a heap on the dirt beside her. She beams as the first rays of golden sunlight peak out from behind the mountains, casting deep shadows across the ocean below them. Clint’s never seen Italy like this before, but it’s fast becoming his favourite place in the world. </p><p>“Wow,” he breathes. “Who knew the sun could look like that.”</p><p>“I did,” Natasha says smugly. “That’s why I dragged your ass up here, Barton.”</p><p>He leans over and kisses her softly, hand cupping her cheek. He loves her so much it burns deep in his bones, and he wants to stay there above the world with her forever. When they pull apart he wraps his arm around her shoulders and lets her rest her head against him. The sun peaks, and her face glows in its wake.</p><p>Clint closes his eyes. He breathes deeply and savours the feeling of her, with her hand entwined with his, her head heavy and her body warm. It’s perfect, and he doesn’t want it to end.</p><p>Except when he opens his eyes all he sees is the roof of his bedroom. The spot beside him is empty, the bed cold. He sighs and rolls over and tries to hold onto the threads of his dream for just a second longer. </p><p>-</p><p> </p><p>
    <b>Missouri, 2008</b>
  </p><p>Clint leads Natasha down the winding hallway, glancing back at her every now and then to make sure she doesn’t run. They’ve been partners for something like six years and he’s seen her bleed out of more places than necessary, but it’s the thought of meeting his newborn daughter that has her clutching at the teddy bear she brought with her.  </p><p>She wasn’t there when Cooper was born. He had dragged her in when he was a toddler and she hadn’t left her room for days, not even for the child who incessantly banged his toys on her door every time he was left alone. She had warmed up to him, though, and the second Clint saw her holding his son he decided that she would be the first person to see his daughter, Laura’s parents be damned. </p><p>“Just here,” Clint says, and ushers her into the room. Laura smiles from the bed with his baby—his <em> daughter </em>—sleeping peacefully in her arms. “Natasha, meet Lila Barton.”</p><p>Natasha cautiously stands beside the bed. “Hi Lila.”</p><p>“She won’t bite, Nat,” Laura says. “She’s got no teeth.”</p><p>“Right,” Natasha breathes. She puts the bear down and relaxes her shoulders. Clint’s seen her do this hundreds of times; usually before a mission, before she slips into the life that’s been written for her. “Congratulations. How do you feel?”</p><p>“Like a baby just came out of my vagina,” Laura deadpans. “But, happy too. This is the calm before the Cooper-strength storm arrives.”</p><p>Clint is proud and he’s not ashamed to show it. He scoops Lila out of Laura’s arms and walks around the bed, bringing her over to Natasha. He’s not sure she’s ever held a baby before but she cradles her arms and accepts the weight of his tiny child as though she’s been doing it her whole life.</p><p>“We almost called her Natasha,” Laura says. “But Clint thought it might get too confusing.”</p><p>“Lila’s a nice name,” Natasha murmurs. “Where did you get it from?”</p><p>Laura shrugs, reaching for the pitcher of water on the bedside table. “Ask your worse half. He plucked it out from somewhere.”</p><p>Clint pauses, eyes flickering between his wife and his partner. Laura is laughing, and Natasha’s lips are pulled up carefully at the corners, and he thinks that he should smile, too. Except he can’t think of the reason he chose that name, or where he ever heard it before. All he can focus on is the sterile smell of the hospital, the beeping of machines that aren’t even in the room with them.</p><p>“I don’t remember where I got that name from.”</p><p>“It’s my favourite name,” Natasha says. “Remember, Clint?”</p><p>Somethings not right. Natasha holds Lila and smiles. Lila’s not Lila anymore, though, Lila’s an empty blanket. He looks behind him and the bed is empty. It’s not even a bed. He closes his eyes and breathes deeply, tries to stop the rush of noise that fills his head.</p><p><em> Clint</em>, someone calls. <em> Clint, Clint! Wake up, Clint! Clint— </em></p><p>“It’s my favourite name,” Natasha repeats. Clint opens his eyes again and there’s blood matted in her hair. Her hand reaches out to him, eyes glassy, and then—</p><p>-</p><p> </p><p>
    <b>Washington, 2008</b>
  </p><p>“—And then she got down on one knee,” Natasha finishes. There’s a smattering of applause that he thinks comes from Pepper, and he finds himself laughing from behind his champagne glass. Maria shrugs and pulls Natasha in for a kiss. The engagement ring shines brightly on her finger when she brings her hand up to cup her fiancé’s cheek.</p><p>Clint doesn’t get a chance to see Natasha again until later, at the grazing table. “You’re glowing, Romanoff.”</p><p>“Shut up,” she says playfully, elbowing him in the side. “You know you’re my maid of honour, right?”</p><p>Clint gulps. “Can’t we call it best man?”</p><p>“Nope, maid of honour. My wedding, my rules.” Her eyes soften as she winds her arm around his waist. “Are you okay? You seem a little withdrawn today.”</p><p>“I just feel,” he begins, then huffs in frustration. “I feel disjointed. Confused. I keep waking up and feeling like I’ve missed something big.”</p><p>She frowns. “Have you been talking to Sam about it?”</p><p>“Yea,” he says, shrugging. “I don’t know, Nat. It’s not important. Today’s <em> your </em>day.”</p><p>“You’re my best friend, so I don’t care,” she replies. “I want you to feel happy, too.”</p><p>“Of course I’m happy,” he says. “You’re getting married. You’re my <em> best friend</em>.”</p><p>Natasha squeezes his waist, resting her head on his shoulder. “It’s okay to feel overwhelmed, Clint. It’s a big change. Sam said that things like this could make it worse.”</p><p>Clint nods, keeping his eyes fixed firmly on his champagne. He doesn’t want to feel like this on the day meant for her, because he’s sick of feeling like he’s ruining every happy moment in her life. She insists that he isn’t but it doesn’t stop the guilt that eats him alive. It’s the guilt that makes it worse.</p><p>The hallucinations started six months ago, and Clint’s been toeing the edge of a breakdown ever since. He wakes up and tells himself in the mirror that he’s exactly where he’s supposed to be and it helps, for the most part. Sam and therapy help too, but there’s a part of his brain that’s been broken along the way and he can’t see an end to the paranoia in sight.</p><p>He thinks it started as a dream; Natasha, hanging over the edge of a cliff with just his fingers around her wrist keeping her alive. And then he had seen her at a cafe the next day, and he still can’t explain why she had been bleeding, just that she <em> was </em> and nobody else seemed to notice. Now he has therapy with Sam, an ex-boyfriend who bailed after the second meltdown, and enough sense to not tell anyone that nothing is working.</p><p>“Clint,” Natasha presses. She turns him to face her, cups his cheek with her hand. “I’m here and I’m okay. <em> You’re </em> okay. None of it’s real.”</p><p>“I know,” he whispers. He closes his eyes and breathes in, deeply, not thinking about Matt and the way he had jumped ship the second things became hard, but of Natasha and how she’s been his best friend for so many years now that losing her is equivalent to losing a limb. “It’s not real.”</p><p>It’s not real. He knows it, deep down, that whatever tricks his mind have been playing on him are just a result of stress or something. He’s seen so many versions of Natasha and himself over the last six months that he’s starting to lose focus of who <em> he </em> really is, though, but he doesn’t want to tell her that. Not at her engagement party. Not when he hasn’t had a dream like that for a week.</p><p>When he opens his eyes the world comes crashing down around his feet. He feels foolish for thinking it would go away.</p><p>The champagne glass slips from his fingers and he’s acutely aware of the people that turn his way, but he can’t tear his gaze from Natasha and the blood that drips steadily from her nose. There’s more in her ear, her hair, and he realises with a sickening sense of dread that he’s seen her like this before.</p><p>“You’re bleeding,” he says, heart pounding. It’s fake, he knows that. Except he can’t be sure. Not anymore. “You’re dead. You’re—”</p><p>“Clint,” Natasha says. He sees her lips move but it doesn’t make sense. She grabs him by the hands and drags him away from the guests, through a set of ornate glass doors and down a hall for some privacy. “Look at me. I’m alive.”</p><p>“No,” he sobs. He wrenches his hands free and threads his fingers into his hair instead. “No, you’re bleeding.”</p><p>“Tell me where we are,” Natasha says. “Look at me. Tell me where we are.”</p><p>“Vormir,” Clint chokes. He’s never heard the word before, but it’s right, it has to be right because he remembers it; the cold and the ash that fell and the way that Natasha had saved him, the way that he had been a second too late. “God, Natasha,”</p><p>He sinks to his knees. Tugging at his hair brings some clarity to the mess of thoughts swirling in his brain, because he thinks she’s died for real this time. She falls right beside him and cradles his head to her chest, over her heart where he can hear the steady beating.</p><p>“I’m alive,” she tells him. “I’m okay. You’re seeing things that aren’t real, Clint. It’s okay. We’re safe here. We’re in Washington.”</p><p>Another hallucination, or maybe it’s a memory that he has no explanation for. She was in Washington and he wasn’t; she was on trial and he was hiding away with a woman whose face is just a blur now. He squeezes his eyes shut and tries to think of anything else. The Natasha he knows, his best friend, is the girl he met in a yoga class thirteen years ago. </p><p>“What’s wrong with me?” Clint asks, desperately clinging to Natasha’s arm. “I don’t understand. Why are you bleeding?”</p><p>“I’m okay,” Natasha repeats. “Maria, love, call Sam.”</p><p>He listens to Maria take a few steps away, lets the indecipherable hum of her voice soothe the anxiety that swirls through him, sticky and hot. He doesn’t want to talk to Sam and go back to hospital. He wants to know why he suddenly remembers lifetimes with her that he never lived. </p><p>“I met you at yoga,” he says. “I didn’t know you before then.”</p><p>“You didn’t,” Natasha confirms. “You had just met Logan. I hadn’t met Maria yet. We went for coffee, the three of us.”</p><p>“Logan left me,” Clint murmurs. “Matt left too. Because I’m insane, right?”</p><p>“No. He left because he was a coward.”</p><p>Maria comes back and crouches beside them. He feels her hand on his shoulder but doesn’t want to move his head from Natasha’s chest. She’s alive and his brain is wrong. It shouldn’t be so hard to convince himself of that. </p><p>“I’m sorry,” he says. “I ruined the party.”</p><p>“No you didn’t, Clint,” Maria says. “We want to make sure you’re okay. That’s more important.” </p><p>“Sam’s on his way,” Natasha murmurs. “Can you tell me—”</p><p>Clint beats her to it. “My name is Clint Barton. It’s… It should be 2008. It’s 2014. <em> God, </em>Natasha. You’re Natasha. My best friend. I met you at yoga in Moscow.”</p><p>“In Crestwood,” she corrects gently. “It <em> is </em>2008. You’re doing well, honey.”</p><p>“But you die,” he sobs, feels Maria rub his shoulder. “Vormir. What does it mean? Why do I keep seeing you like this?”</p><p>“What’s Vormir?” Maria asks. “Nat?”</p><p>She shakes her head and strokes her fingers down his cheek. He clings to her and cries, because all he can see when he closes is his eyes is the two of them; side by side, guns drawn, Natasha limping alongside him towards a shawarma restaurant, Natasha holding a baby, Natasha <em> hanging over the edge of a cliff, above a fall that there’s no coming back from. </em> </p><p>Except none of those things have happened. Except Clint met Natasha at a yoga class, and then at a juice bar. Except Clint and Natasha work boring nine to fives and go to gay bars on the weekends. Except for as long as he’s known her, Natasha has never held a gun, has never so much as scraped a knee. </p><p>“I’m sorry,” he tells them, over and over. He hears footsteps and knows that it’s Sam. Sam will make him go to hospital. What if he misses the wedding? “Don’t make me go.”</p><p>“It’s okay, honey,” Natasha says. Her hands are cold. “You’re not going anywhere, okay? Stay with me.”</p><p>
    <em> Clint! Clint, you need to come back. Come back. </em>
  </p><p>His head pounds. He wraps his hand around Natasha’s arm, vice-like, even as his vision begins to darken along the edges. The voice in his head grows louder, so he holds her tighter, tries to stay in the one place that hasn’t ended in death or separation yet. It doesn’t make sense. </p><p>
    <em> Clint, come back! </em>
  </p><p>
    <em> You need to come home. Come home to us. </em>
  </p><p>
    <em> Clint, it’s ti— </em>
  </p><p>
    <em> Clint! </em>
  </p><p>-</p><p> </p><p>
    <b>New York, 2023</b>
  </p><p>Clint comes to gasping, body drenched in cold sweat. It takes his racing mind longer than it should to remember where he is, and then he falls back onto the ground, legs and arms splayed like a starfish. The roof of the facility isn’t what he wants to see right now.</p><p>“You were gone for hours,” Wanda says from somewhere behind him.</p><p>Clint chuckles. “Yea, well. I hadn’t found it yet.”</p><p>He listens to Wanda circle around and sit beside him. He thinks she might reach out to him; instead, she waves her hand and a sandwich appears out of nowhere, the plate landing with a clatter in front of her. He waits for her to say something about how none of his plans have worked yet. Instead, she pushes the sandwich towards him.</p><p>“You should eat something at least.”</p><p>“Thanks,” he says, taking a deep breath before he sits himself up. His head swims but all of his body parts are intact, even though his heart is heavy with the weight of all the missed opportunities he’s witnessed. “I’ll try again soon.”</p><p>“After you sleep,” Wanda pushes. “Or let Bruce make an adjustment to the formula.”</p><p>“Dunno what adjustments can be made,” he shrugs. “I just need to find the right time.”</p><p>“Were you close?” She asks. </p><p>There’s hope in her voice, because he’s doing what she wants to do too. Thanos had taken more than any of them had ever imagined; Natasha and Tony and Vision, names now instead of people they could hug and kiss and <em> see </em>. If he can find a universe different from this one, where Natasha loves him and lives, then it will be possible for all of them.</p><p>It’s easier to leave this life behind than he thought it would be. Laura taking the kids and throwing a divorce in his face had been the icing on the proverbial cake, the final push he needed to chase the life he had always longed for. It was terrible timing, really, but he had always moved Heaven and Earth for Natasha. </p><p>“I think so,” he says slowly. “Some of it happened, with the real me. And then I find another universe and we’re different. But God, Wanda, she—”</p><p>Wanda glances at him as he rubs his hand over his face. “I bet it feels nice.”</p><p>It was more than nice. It was more than he had hoped for, to see her alive and moving around in a world that was only centimetres away from being <em> this </em>world. He’s lived lifetimes in the span of hours, grown old and died and come back somewhere else, and none of it should be possible. Bruce hadn’t wanted him to test it, but he had nothing to lose, and now—</p><p>Clint takes a bite of his sandwich. “Do you think I’m insane for doing this?”</p><p>“No,” Wanda says. “I would do the same if I didn’t have my own plan.”</p><p>“Right. The fantasy.”</p><p>She frowns. “I can do it for you, too.”</p><p>“I don’t want it to be fake,” Clint says. “I spent half my life loving her and the other half regretting the decisions that have led me here. I can’t live with myself knowing that there might be <em> somewhere </em>that we—”</p><p>“Love each other,” Wanda finishes softly. “She did love you. I saw it. And I know you felt it, Clint.”</p><p>He swallows the lump in his throat and looks anywhere other than her face. “I can’t live in a world without her. The last six months have torn me apart.”</p><p>Wanda does reach for him, then, and he lets her rest her hand on his arm. She’s the only one who gets it; not even Steve, who disappeared into the past without so much as a goodbye, could understand where Clint was coming from. He doesn’t see what the difference is. They’re both chasing lives that they should have held onto with both hands.</p><p>“I’m sorry,” she says. It could be the thousandth time she’s said it, and the meaning is never lost. “I know you’ll find her.”</p><p>“Only something like thirteen and a half million realities left to try, right?” He jokes. “Guess I’ll have a shower.”</p><p>“And sleep,” Wanda urges. “You heard what Bruce said. You need to take care of yourself, too, or else there won’t be anything left for Nat to love.”</p><p>“I know,” Clint says softly. “Thanks, Wanda. And if I never see you again—”</p><p>“Yea, I know,” Wanda says, lips tugging up at the corners. It’s the first time he’s seen her smile in months. “You leave me your entire fortune because I’m the favourite daughter. Hurry up and find her then, Barton. I need a new wardrobe.”</p><p>-</p><p> </p><p>
    <b>Vormir, 20—</b>
  </p><p>Natasha hangs from her wrist. Clint hangs from the grappling hook she fired. He fired? His hand aches. He reaches for her forearm.</p><p>“It’s okay,” she says. “Let me go.”</p><p>“No.” Clint’s desperate now. He shakes his head to try and make a solution stick. There’s no way out of this; he takes to praying instead. “Tasha. <em> Tasha</em>.”</p><p>She looks sad. She looks tired and afraid. She looks <em> sad </em>.</p><p>“If there are fourteen million universes, Tash—”</p><p>The air is cold. Everything is wrong because he thinks they’re in love this time. Natasha smiles like it’s not the most painful thing in the world. “We’ve done this before, Clint.”</p><p>She hangs from her wrist. He lets go.</p><p>-</p><p> </p><p>
    <b>Washington, 2008</b>
  </p><p>Sam has his notebook. Clint knows that the notebook means something isn’t right. Something hasn’t been right for months and he doesn’t need therapy to confirm that. Maybe it helps. He hasn’t decided yet.</p><p>“Where do you think you met Natasha?” Sam asks.</p><p>“Moscow,” Clint replies. “But I’ve never been to Moscow.”</p><p>“If you’ve never been to Moscow, then how do you think you could have met her there?”</p><p>“No, but I <em> have </em>been to Moscow,” he elaborates. “Just not me.”</p><p>Sam is patient. Sam is Natasha’s therapist too, which is why Clint is seeing him and not some second-class shrink from Craigslist. “What do you mean, Clint?”</p><p>“It’s what I’ve been saying all along,” Clint says, even though the thought only occurred to him on the subway that morning. “I’m seeing my past lives. Specifically, my past lives with Natasha. But she keeps...dying. Or being taken away from me.”</p><p>“Okay,” Sam says. He makes a note in the notebook and Clint feels heat rise to his cheeks. Now that he’s said it out loud it doesn’t sound as credible as he had thought. “Do you think that’s true?”</p><p>“Yes,” he answers immediately. “I’ve seen so many lives, and I feel like I’m running towards something that’s always just out of reach. Does that make me crazy?”</p><p>“No,” Sam says. “I think I’m going to recommend another test though.”</p><p>“Okay,” Clint says quietly. He reaches for the cup of tea Sam’s set on the table in front of him and stirs in a teaspoon of sugar. There’s a sharp pain at the back of his head and he frowns, clinking the metal against the side of the cup again. “Do you feel that?”</p><p>“Feel what?” Sam asks, but Clint can’t really hear him over the rushing in his ears. He stares at the cup and feels his vision swim, and he can’t explain how he suddenly knows that he’s in the wrong place, but he feels it deep in his gut. “Clint?”</p><p>He opens his mouth to reply, and the world goes black.</p><p>-</p><p> </p><p>
    <b>Waverly, 2001</b>
  </p><p>Clint looks up at the sound of the spoon hitting the bowl. Natasha freezes for one painstakingly long second, eyes wide, left hand still hovering in the air. Her fingers clench around air, and everything goes to shit.</p><p>She screams, drops to her knees on the linoleum and presses her hands over her ears. Clint’s already moving, racing around the kitchen bench and falling right beside her. His heart hammers in his chest as he watches her, curling tight beneath the stool she had just been sitting on.</p><p>“Natasha? What’s wrong? Can you tell me what’s wrong?”</p><p>Her breath stutters. They’re only kids; Clint knows this, even though there’s a strange part of his mind that seems to be stuck on a loop. He holds his hands out, palms up, because he knows that’s what he’s done for her before. She shakes her head and wheezes, face paling.</p><p>“Breathe in,” he tells her. “You gotta breathe. Grab my hand.”</p><p>Clint is twelve, Natasha is eleven. This is different from the first time, in Connecticut. This is two kids with a shared history of trauma and only each other to lean on. There are hot summers here, too, but this is a different universe. Clint is twelve, Natasha is eleven, and this isn’t the world he’s looking for.</p><p>“<em>Ya ne mogu</em>,” Natasha says.</p><p>“You can,” Clint says. He knows Russian in this universe, more than <em> luchshiy drug</em>. “You do it every day. Breathe in, nice and deep.”</p><p>Natasha shudders. Clint hums, because in this universe touching her isn’t always a good idea but making noise is grounding. He hums an old song and lets her breathe, and when the worst of it passes she reaches for his hand, clings to his fingers.</p><p>It doesn’t matter that it’s the wrong universe. Clint knows this, her small hand in his, more than anything else in the world.</p><p>-</p><p> </p><p>
    
  </p><p>17/2/2011</p><p>
    <span class="redacted">OPERATION HERCULES</span>
  </p><p>OPERATION ORDER <span class="redacted">841122</span></p><p>Case findings for <span class="redacted">OPERATION HERCULES</span></p><p>
    <span class="redacted">BELARUS</span>
  </p><p>Mission dates: <span class="redacted">21/10/2010 to 25/10/2010</span></p><p>Task Organisation</p><p>Strike Team Delta—Phillip J. Coulson</p><p>Agents CLINT BARTON and NATASHA ROMANOFF;</p><p> </p><p>SITUATION</p><p>Investigation into alleged operations at a facility in the <span class="redacted">Maryina Horka Forest</span> believed to be related to <span class="redacted">Red Room</span> activity noted in area. Agent BARTON tasked with retrieving documents of interest and locating ROMANOFF without engaging.</p><p>FINDINGS</p><p><span class="redacted">MISSION 841122</span> was categorised a failure on 23/10/2010. Agents BARTON and ROMANOFF returned to S.H. critically wounded. PoA fell to myself, Philip J Coulson, in the wake of both agents being unable to step forward for the other.</p><p>Investigations started immediately to determine where the <span class="redacted">mole within SHIELD</span> came from. <span class="redacted">Hydra code found embedded within SHIELD framework. ROMANOFF’s personal phone was infected with an unfamiliar bug</span>. BARTON was an unintended casualty. </p><p>Approx. two months after the failed mission tech found traces of bug in <span class="redacted">Agent GRANT WARD’s computer. Subsequent investigation uncovered years of sabotage and treason. WARD arrested immediately. SHIELD currently working through blacklist of Agents found in close contact with WARD</span></p><p><span class="redacted">Red Room facility</span> in <span class="redacted">Maryina Horka Forest</span> shut down by Strike Team Echo. Several documents of importance were seized during <span class="redacted">Mission 830275</span>. Investigations are still underway to determine the motive behind ROMANOFF’s capture.</p><p>This will be the last document filed for <span class="redacted">Mission 841122</span> until further discoveries are made.</p><p>OUTCOME;</p><p>{1} Agent CLINT BARTON’S <span class="redacted">life support turned off 14/2/2011. Pronounced dead at 14:30pm.</span></p><p>Agent NATASHA ROMANOFF <span class="redacted">moved to psychiatric facility conscious but unresponsive. Unlikely to recover.</span></p><p> </p><p>
    <span class="redacted">I worked with these agents for five years. When I speak to Natasha I like to think she can hear me. She watches the door as though Clint will walk through it, even though I’ve told her he won’t. The doctors say that she doesn’t understand. I think she understands more than any of us.</span>
  </p><p>Let the records show that Clint Barton’s last words <span class="redacted">[SECURITY FOOTAGE 5]</span> were “I love you, Tasha.”</p><p> </p><p>Signed</p><p> </p><p>
    
  </p><p>Phillip J Coulson</p><p>-</p><p> </p><p>
    <b>Melbourne, 1999</b>
  </p><p>Forty degrees is stupid weather to be out in. Clint knows that, even as he hops across the hot bitchumen towards his local Safeway barefoot. The street is mainly empty, with people heading out to the beach early enough to get a spot in the shade. He had fully prepared himself for a day in front of the aircon until he realised he had absolutely no dog food for Lucky.</p><p>He also has no beer, but Lucky’s food is definitely more important. </p><p>The blast of cool air that hits him when he walks through the doors is almost enough to make him fall to his knees. The sweat dripping from his temples dries in an instant and he starts wandering around, taking his time for as long as possible in the perfectly air conditioned supermarket. There’s an array of people doing much the same as he is, pausing to pick things up and put them back just to avoid going back out into the heat.</p><p>Clint goes for the beer first, setting his sights on the huge fridge towards the back. It’s relatively quiet except for a woman with red hair who looks to be deciding between two expensive bottles of vodka. He smiles to himself and reaches for the Carlton Draught. When he straightens up she’s suddenly in front of him, hair sticky against her temples.</p><p>“Which bottle makes me look like I have my life together?”</p><p>Clint frowns at the two options she shows him. “I dunno if vodka makes <em> anyone </em> look like they have their life together.”</p><p>“You’re right,” she sighs, frowning. Her green eyes find his briefly and then flicker down to the slab he has tucked under his arm. “I’m not much for wine, though.”</p><p>“Hit ‘em with a classic raspberry cruiser,” Clint jokes. “Can’t go wrong.”</p><p>“You’re right, again.” She takes the bottles back and he watches her collect a slab of her own. “The only person I’m trying to impress is myself, actually.”</p><p>“Nothing else to do on a day like this,” Clint says. “I’ve got a date with the aircon and Home and Away reruns.”</p><p>The woman smiles. “Sounds like a dream. I’m Natasha, by the way.”</p><p>“Clint,” he says, and they awkwardly shake hands around the boxes in their arms. “It’s good to meet you.”</p><p>“Yea, you too,” she says. She turns to leave and pauses, thongs squeaking against the lino. “Would you wanna go to The Espy for a drink?”</p><p>Natasha is beautiful, even though her face is flushed from the heat and her singlet is damp with sweat. He can’t think of one good reason to say no to her, and the more he looks at her the more he starts to feel like saying yes to her will be the best decision he ever makes in his life. </p><p>He puts the slab down. “Yea, uh, no worries. I should probably change.”</p><p>“Don’t worry about it,” she says, winking. “I’ll get us in.”</p><p>He’s not sure she will, but he still follows her out of Safeway and hops between shadows the whole way to the Hotel Esplanade. Despite the shorts and the lack of appropriate footwear they’re both let in, and Clint has a cold beer in his hand before he can even really wrap his head around what’s happening. </p><p>“You meet all your blokes at the supermarket?” He jokes.</p><p>Natasha grins wickedly. “Only the good looking ones.</p><p>He feels his neck heat in a way that has nothing to do with the weather outside. “I gotta say, this is better than Home and Away.”</p><p>“Beer’s cold, footy’s on.” Natasha tilts her head back and Clint watches a drop of beer escape the bottle and slide down her neck. “What more could a girl ask for?”</p><p>He has no idea where this is leading, but Natasha is inexplicably familiar and he’s got nothing to lose. If it had been any other day he might have met her in the pub, anyway. He’s glad he came. It beats the alternative and all of the other alternatives he might have been able to come up with. </p><p>They watch the footy and he discovers that Natasha unironically barracks for Collingwood, which is good for her because they win 103-82. Clint barracks for the Saints and wears his loss with pride, then shouts the next three rounds. They drink more beer and cruisers and even a glass each of moderately expensive wine, and he starts to like her as more than a pretty face he met in the bottle-o. </p><p>They stumble back there a few hours later, snag a bottle of Passion Pop and hail a taxi to the beach. He kisses her there, lips sticky from bad wine and sweat, and eventually they wind up back at his place. There’s sand in the bed, sand rough against their skin; they shower, wash it away, and then when Clint wakes up in the morning Natasha has already gone, leaving behind nothing except a note scribbled on the back of a letter.</p><p>
    <em>thanks clint barton. i feel like i might see you again :) </em>
  </p><p>-</p><p> </p><p>
    <b>Moscow, 2002</b>
  </p><p>The rain comes on day two. It’s heavy and Clint’s ill-prepared, but he has his bow and enough common sense to keep his hand on it as he circles out from his hiding spot and approaches the woman sitting on the ledge. She doesn’t move at all, even though she must know that he’s behind her. </p><p>“You’re a hard woman to find,” he says. He means, <em> you’re too good to let me catch you here. </em></p><p>Natalia Romanova shrugs. “When I want to be.”</p><p>Clint has the easiest shot in the world, which is what makes it the hardest. The arrow could be through the back of her skull before she has the time to blink again. He hasn’t seen her eyes. He thinks that if he sees her eyes, just once, it might make a difference.</p><p>“There a reason you’re on a roof in the middle of a storm?” He asks.</p><p>“I’m not sure which will be quicker,” Natalia says. “The arrow or the fall.”</p><p>The arrow will be quicker. Clint never misses, which is why Fury and Coulson sent him after her. This is the first time he’s been this close to her; he can see the way she grips the ledge, the way her feet swing out over the city. They’re so high up that he knows she won’t come back from a fall like that.</p><p>“The arrow,” he says, sitting beside her. “It would be a clean shot.”</p><p>“Maybe you should take the shot.”</p><p>“Not like this,” Clint says. “You’re too good for that, Widow.”</p><p>“I’m also tired,” she admits. “It’s a heavy burden to carry.”</p><p>“What’s that?”</p><p>“The blood.” She lets go of the ledge with one hand to reach into the pocket of her jacket, and Clint flinches, expecting a gun. Instead she pulls out a photograph; two girls, heads pressed together, smiles wide. “There’s a lot of red in my ledger.”</p><p>Clint knows what happens next. He takes a risk and reaches his hand out, letting it hover in the air between their bodies. “I can help you find her.”</p><p>“What?” Natalia asks. She looks at him, and he realises that this moment means <em> something</em>, even if he doesn’t know what.</p><p>“The girl in the photo,” he pushes. “I can help you find her.”</p><p>Natalia frowns. “She’s dead.”</p><p>“Are you sure?” He asks, and sees the moment she doubts herself. “I know what they did to girls like you. I’d like to hazard a guess that your sister is still alive.”</p><p>She flinches at the word but raises her chin, gaze defiant. “What’s in it for you?”</p><p>“I don’t know,” he shrugs. “This roof isn’t your only option, Natalia.”</p><p>She looks out over the city, breath fogging out in front of her. Clint doesn’t know what it means, but he knows that he’ll give up a slice of freedom to help the woman sitting beside him. He’s seen her at her worst and she’s never given up. He doesn’t know what it means, but he knows that it means <em> something</em>.</p><p>“Okay,” she says softly. “If you help me find her… What comes next?”</p><p>“A job,” Clint shrugs. “I think you and I could make a pretty good team.”</p><p>Natalia smiles and re-pockets the photo. Her hand finds his in the space between them; he feels her, the <em> real </em>her, in the calluses on her fingers. And it means something, even if Clint doesn’t know what that is yet.</p><p>-</p><p> </p><p>Clint finds the universe. It’s simple, really: he goes back to the beginning and changes things just a little, takes one out of Cap’s book without ruining lives in the process. They find Yelena, alive and well—she rolls her eyes and tells Natalia that if either of them had died, it wouldn’t have been <em> her </em>—and then Clint gets her back to the States with only one half of SHIELD hunting them down.</p><p>She changes her name to Natasha. She learns to live in an apartment of her own. Six months after he brings her in they’re in Hong Kong, and they find a restaurant that has at least one burger on the menu. Around a mouthful of spaghetti she tells him, “<em>ty moy luchshiy drug</em>” and he thinks he knows it from somewhere else.</p><p>(In Berlin a year later he meets Laura, but he has someone waiting for him at home this time. He calls Natasha that night and listens to her talk about her trip to the cinema for four hours.)</p><p>There’s everything else, too: Budapest and Loki and Coulson and the Avengers. After that he takes her to Amalfi and they spend a month chasing the sun. Then, Melbourne, where they drink cheap wine with their feet in the sand, and all of it feels like something that was destined to happen. </p><p>This is what he knows about Natasha: he loves her. Clint Barton loves her enough to move mountains, enough to travel through space and time just to find her in as many universes as he could. There’s something to be said about soulmates, but there’s more to be said about Clint and Natasha. They are not only soulmates. They are everything else.</p><p>After New York they head West. Clint doesn’t know where. Natasha kicks her feet up on the dash and holds his hand, and they live. They live happy years, just the two of them, finding a life beyond what was ever offered. Katie is born in winter and they spend the first month of her life snowed in the house. It’s a culmination of missed opportunities, and it’s perfect. </p><p>There’s no Vormir. The world does not end for them again. Clint never finds out what it would feel like to hold the weight of someone above a fall, but he knows that kissing the soft spot beneath Natasha’s ear will make her giggle and squirm. </p><p>This is what he knows about Natasha: she loves him, and he loves her, and they have a daughter with red curls and a life that’s beyond ordinary, but just ordinary enough. It’s enough for Clint. When he falls into bed beside her each night the only thing he knows is happiness and the feeling of her hand in his. </p><p>In this universe, Clint doesn’t have to let go.</p></div>
  </div></div>
</body>
</html>